Descent Into Panic
by Madders Ahatter
Summary: This is a standalone story written expressly for the LeapBack 20th Anniversary convention competition. It came Third! In this story, Sam finds himself trapped in an elevator, and absorbing his host's claustrophobia!
1. Writer's Notes

**Writer's notes**

This story, _Descent Into Panic, _is a standalone. It is not placed firmly in either the pre- or post- _Mirror Image _Universe, nor is it linked to the _Virtual Seasons _or my 5-story arc.

It was written specifically as an entry for the _LeapBack 20__th__ Anniversary Convention _fan fiction competition. As such, it differs from my other stories in that it was written to a deadline. Hence it is shorter than most of my works. In fact it was my second submission, _Bourbon on the Rocks _[also published here] being the first.

I normally shun the pressure of writing to a deadline, especially with the many demands of Real Life to distract me. In this case, it can't have done too much harm.

Both stories were shortlisted to the final ten. _Bourbon on the Rocks _was ultimately placed 6th, while _Descent Into Panic _had the honor of coming 3rd.

This previously modest scribbler is now thrilled to be able to say "I'm officially an award-winning writer!" The certificate has pride of place on my office wall at work, where I can show it off to anyone and everyone who comes in. There was even a small article about me in the local paper – my fifteen minutes of fame!

Greater still is the thrill of knowing that printed copies of the top three stories were given to Scott Bakula, Don Bellisario and Deborah Pratt in their convention bags. Whether or not any of them actually read the stories I guess I'll never know, but it is cool to think they may have done, especially since I was unable to attend in person.

My usual 'thank yous' apply as always.

To the creators and stars of _Quantum Leap – _Don, Deborah, Scott, Dean and the whole team, my heartfelt gratitude for viewing pleasure, inspiration, and new found friends [and fame!] Thank you for literally changing my life for the better, which is at the heart of QL after all.

To my friends and beta readers, you know who you are – my undying gratitude for help and support when it was needed most.

The Internet was invaluable as ever, with much depth of information for me to research on lift design and operation, not to mention the symptoms – and first hand experiences – of claustrophobia.

And of course this time I have to thank the voting committee for placing both my stories in the top ten, and allowing me the tremendous honor of being in the top three finalists.


	2. Prologue

**Descent into Panic**

**Prologue**

Leaping always left Sam Beckett with an unsteady feeling, but this time it was as if he'd landed in the middle of an earthquake. He struggled to maintain his equilibrium, feeling as if the floor was vibrating beneath his feet. It took a few moments for him to register that it actually was!

Looking around he realized that he was in a large and luxurious elevator along with a half dozen other people, including an attendant in a fancy uniform.

Having made eye contact with the young lady standing nearest him, he smiled casually.

Sam felt uneasy, as if his host had been upset or alarmed when he'd leaped in, and he was picking up on the residual adrenaline. He hoped that he was imagining things, and that it was just the unexpected motion of the elevator that had unsettled him.

Nobody was chatting, not even about the weather or the Dodgers game, so Sam assumed they were probably all strangers. This was something of a relief to the leaper, since it meant he wouldn't be expected to answer to a name he didn't know, or even worse, have to address another in familiar terms. The only sounds came from the elevator music, which in keeping with the setting was a classical piece. Sam recognized it, but couldn't recall either the title or the composer.

The deep pile carpet on the floor was a rich ruby red. Both sidewalls were highly polished mirrored glass, making the compartment seem much larger than it actually was, although it was by no means cramped. Illuminating the car - and probably responsible for the higher than average ceiling - there hung a miniature chandelier, in addition to a delicately decorated lamp on the back wall.

Sam concluded that the elevator was almost certainly housed in a grand and expensive hotel - one with 20 floors of rooms according to the numbered buttons on the control panel. The moving pointer over the doors indicated that the elevator was currently descending from the 18th floor toward the 17th.

Figuring that the next couple of minutes while they headed down to the lobby were likely to be uneventful, Sam took the time to look at his companions, and at his own reflection. There was no way of knowing if someone here with him now was the object of the leap mission, but it didn't hurt to be prepared.

Sam's new host was a tall and slender gentleman looking very dapper in an expensive three-piece navy blue pin stripe suit over a pale blue shirt and navy tie. He looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties, his black hair and beard liberally flecked with gray. His shoes were gleaming, and the handkerchief protruding from his breast pocket was crisply creased at just the precise angle to convey elegance and style. There was a pocket watch on a silver chain nestling in the waistcoat pocket. Sam was not in the least surprised that his host was holding a silver-tipped, ornate handled ebony walking cane.

The other occupants were all similarly attired in clothes that spoke of wealth and privilege.

As Sam started to study them each in turn, he became aware that another passenger had surreptitiously sneaked into the car, though the elevator hadn't stopped, the doors hadn't opened, and the new arrival didn't reflect his outrageous orange and ocher outfit in the mirrors.

Al stood close at Sam's shoulder, knowing it would be hard to converse subtly in an enclosed space. He had a panicked look on his face, and every inch of his body language suggested the urgency of his message.

Sam felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was going to be one of _those _leaps, he thought, with his usual "Oh, boy!"


	3. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

The look of alarm in Sam's eyes was enough to tell Al he'd picked up on the urgency of the situation. "I know you can't talk freely, Sam, so just listen carefully," he began without preamble.

Sam nodded subtly.

"You need to stop the elevator at the next floor and get everybody off." Al tried to keep his voice calm; he knew he was already frightening the leaper with his insistent instructions. Sam frowned, uncomprehending.

"The elevator is going to jam, buddy. And that's not all. Don't panic, but the hotel is about to catch fire. Some blonde bimbo on the top floor goes out and leaves her hair curling tongs on a bath towel. Not only starts a localized fire, but shorts out electrics right left and centre." Al saw the flicker of terror cross Sam's face despite his instruction to the contrary. Sam had encountered fires a number of times on past leaps and on almost every occasion had barely escaped with his life. He'd expressed an opinion that it had to be one of the worst ways to die, and Al had to agree.

The leaper's mouth opened, but he daren't voice the thoughts rushing through his head.

"Stay calm, Sam." Al knew the advice was worthless, but he gave it anyway. "The two events aren't directly linked. The fire won't start for a while yet. You have time to get everyone safely out, but you have to move soon. Originally this elevator car plummeted to the ground, killing everyone inside. They were trapped inside for some time before that happened though."

Sam could feel his hands starting to tremble. He clenched them into fists. Then he closed his eyes for a moment and drew in a slow, steadying breath. It didn't really help much. He wanted to turn and rail and scream at the hologram, but he knew he had to keep those with him from sharing the fear and panic that he was fighting to control within himself. How he could do that, and at the same time achieve what Al had asked of him, he had no idea.

"Al, how _can _I get them out?" he asked in a whisper through a barely open and suddenly dry mouth. "They won't believe there's any danger, and even if they did, it would just start a panic."

Al's brow furrowed deeper in consternation. The kid had a point.

Sam looked around nervously, his mind racing in a desperate attempt to formulate a plan. Taking a deep breath, he did the only thing he could think of to do. Go with a measure of the truth.

He edged closer to the attendant, whose polished gold name badge identified him as Andrew Stoppard. "Excuse me," Sam began, speaking softly so only his intended audience could hear, "but can you smell smoke? Shouldn't we stop the elevator?"

"Oh, good idea, Sam!" Al encouraged.

The young man turned to Sam with a sympathetic smile.

"The claustrophobia getting to you again, is it, Mr. Quincey? Would you like me to let you out at the next floor? You can take a few minutes to calm yourself and I'll come back and fetch you when I've dropped these other folks off. We can take it one floor at a time if you like."

Sam returned the young man's smile, despite the fact that his plan hadn't worked. The hotel employee should be commended for his dedication to customer service. There hadn't been the slightest hint of irritation or impatience in his British accented voice or in his body language, merely a genuine desire to be helpful.

Sam now recognized the shaky feeling he'd leaped into as being a bleed-through of Mr. Quincey's claustrophobia. The mere mention of it had Sam feeling palpitations again. The temptation was great to take the young man up on his offer, and get out of the tiny room – for it suddenly seemed to Sam to have shrunk – as fast as he could; the more so because of Al's dire predictions for anyone who stayed aboard the elevator. Yet that was the point. If Sam took the easy way out – literally – he would be consigning the other passengers to a gruesome fate. He was not about to do that. Unless...

A quick glance at Al was enough for the hologram to know exactly what was running through Sam's mind. His own thoughts had been taking a similar path.

Al consulted his hand-link, posing the question that Sam hadn't needed to voice.

Moments later, Al regretfully shook his head. "Sorry, Sam; Zig says if you try to report the elevator failure to hotel maintenance, or try to get it open yourself from outside, you'll be unable to save them in either scenario."

"No. No, thank you." Sam rejected the attendant's offer with a weary sigh. "I really do think I can smell smoke, though. Is there any way you can check it out?"

"I'm sure it's nothing Mr. Quincey sir," the young man reassured him, but since he firmly believed in the maxim 'the customer is always right' he was more than willing to humor the old man, "but I'll call down and have them investigate for you."

"Thank you!" Sam returned hopefully. Perhaps this was going to be an easy leap after all.

He should have known better.

No sooner had the attendant picked up the handset to make the call than the lights flashed, the power went out, and the car jerked to an abrupt halt.

Just behind Sam a woman screamed shrilly - jarring his nerves still further - while the other passengers queried all at once:

"What's going on?"

"What happened?"

"Where are the lights?"

and other unintelligible mutterings of discontent.

The attendant tapped the cradle a few times, and then looked apologetically at Sam by the dim light of the emergency backup power that kicked in with a hum to replace the music.

Both he and Al voiced the obvious fact at the same time, "The line's dead!"


	4. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

It was the scenario that Drew most dreaded. Bad enough to have the lift stall at all, but for it to happen with Mr. Quincey on board...

Drew knew he shouldn't have favorites, but he had a soft spot for Mr. Quincey. Most of the hotel guests treated Drew like he was beneath contempt – if they noticed his existence at all. An attendant in a lift was little more than a labor saving device to most of them. They were too full of their own importance to have to bother pressing a button for themselves. Heaven forbid one of the ladies should chip a nail!

Mr. Quincey was different. He spoke to Drew as if he were an equal, and actually seemed interested in what the young man had to say. Curious as to why someone of 'such obvious intelligence' as he put it, was doing such menial work, he'd listened sympathetically to Drew's tale of having to give up college and get a job to support his mother, disabled in the accident that killed his father six months earlier.

When he'd been asked to 'look after' one of the hotel's most valued guests who had a phobia he was trying to conquer, Drew had thought he would be in for days or even weeks of pandering to a spoilt rich man's whims. He'd been dreading it. As it turned out, these days he actually looked forward to the old man braving his lift, or 'elevator' as Mr. Quincey and the other Americans insisted on calling it. He enjoyed their chats as much as he appreciated the small 'tips' Mr. Quincey insisted on paying him for his 'time and trouble'. The old man had offered to 'cut a check' that would have eased their situation considerably, but neither Drew nor his mother would accept charity. This was Mr. Quincey's way of helping out while leaving them their pride, and Drew loved him for it. He'd have enjoyed their sessions even without the extra income though. Mr. Quincey was a real character, and full of interesting life stories.

He'd been making such good progress too. This was the first time Mr. Quincey had made it all the way to the top floor in one go.

Now this had to happen. It wasn't fair.

"Please stay calm, ladies and gentlemen, and try not to move around the car too much until the full lighting is restored," Drew began with practiced efficiency. He put a comforting hand on Mr. Quincey's elbow, and shot him a reassuring smile. "Is everyone all right?"

Once more, everyone started talking at once, most of them complaining at the outrage of having their vital activities interrupted. The major part of their hostility seemed to be directed at Drew Stoppard personally, as if he had deliberately inconvenienced them in this way.

"Whoa, Sam, I think you need to rein this lot in before they turn into a lynch mob!" Al suggested.

Sam turned to look at his friend, as if surprised to see him there, "A-Al?"

"Uh-oh," Al didn't like the glazed look in Sam's eyes. He'd seen this loss of control before, when the leapee's mind 'bled through,' and it usually spelled a whole heap of trouble with a side order of disaster. "Ziggy! What do I do?"

The hand link squealed.

"Yes, I think I'd worked out Sam's synergizing and so suffering from Quincey's claustrophobia, you stupid pile of gummy bears. Any idiot can see he's on the verge of a full blown panic attack. Now tell me how I snap him out of it."

"Take a deep breath, Mr. Quincey," Drew could see the signs too, and ignored the baying throng to help his friend, for so he thought of the old man. He turned to face Sam, and gently forced eye contact. "Can you hear me, sir?"

Sam was hyperventilating. He felt as if he were suffocating. He pulled at his stiffly starched shirt collar, loosening his tie and undoing the top button without even being aware he was doing so. He'd started perspiring and he could feel his heart pounding in his chest. His stomach was tied in knots. He felt sick and dizzy. His nerves were ragged; he felt tingly all over. Every sound seemed amplified, yet indistinct. He was completely paralyzed with fear.

"I'm right here, Sam. Take it easy. Listen to me, Sam, concentrate on my voice," Al coaxed his friend gently. He could feel the sweat starting to form on his own brow, and brushed it away with an irritated swipe of the back of his hand. One of them needed to hold it together.

Sam was barely aware of what was going on around him, the voices he heard were like buzzing flies – all he could think of was that he had to get out, get away, escape. His eyes darted round, looking for the exit, but not focusing on it. His feet felt as if they were welded to the spot.

"Don't worry Mr. Quincey," Drew spoke the name softly and calmly, then turned to include the rest of the guests. "Everything is going to be fine. I'm sure that the power will be restored very soon and we will be able to continue to the foyer. There is no need to panic. Please remain calm and stay where you are."

Totally ignoring him, the others began pressing forward toward the door, jostling one another and still trying to out-shout each other with the importance of their personal agendas, mingled with a growing alarm.

"C'mon buddy," Al urged, "we need you here, c'mon back pal. You aren't Tobias Quincey, you're Dr. Sam Beckett. Now suck it up Sam and get these people organized."

Sam looked at his friend and frowned. His head hurt. Oh, God, did his head hurt! The noise behind him was intolerable and suddenly he could stand it no longer. He yelled at the top of his lungs, "Would you all please just **SHUT UP**!!!"

Totally stunned by the rudeness of their fellow passenger, aside from a couple of muttered "Well, really!" and "How dare he?" comments, they did just that.

"Thank you," Sam managed with a sigh. Then he swayed, looking for a moment as if he was about to pass out. Drew caught hold of him, and eased him into the corner of the elevator, so he could lean against the wall for support. Sam managed to give the young man a feeble half smile of gratitude.

"Attaboy, Sam." Al breathed a sigh of relief. Sam was still looking grey; confused; his breathing was ragged and there was a 'deer in the headlights' look in his eyes, but he was obviously trying with every ounce of self-control he possessed to get a grip on himself.

"He-help m-me, Al," he whispered desperately, clutching the handle of the cane as if it were a lifeline.

"I'm right here, buddy," Al reassured him. "Just take a couple of deep breaths. Its gonna be okay, Sam. We're gonna get through this together."

Al well knew the terrors of being trapped in a confined space. Vietnam had made him an expert. He could empathize with Quincey's panic, transferred now to Sam. His time-traveling friend couldn't afford to give in to the fear though. If he did, then history would repeat itself and they would all die.

Al was not about to let that happen. "Hang in there, kid. I'm gonna stay right here, I won't leave you. You can do this, Sam. _We_ can do this."

Though still trembling, Sam gave him a nod and the other half of the grateful smile he'd conferred upon the attendant. Leaning the cane in the corner, he took the handkerchief from his top pocket, and wiped the perspiration from his face and neck. For a moment he buried his face in his hands, and forced a couple of slow breaths. Then, putting the handkerchief into his trouser pocket, he looked up at his fellow passengers.

"I apologize for my outburst," he began, putting up a hand to silence them when they began to complain again. Though he was regaining control gradually, Sam found he was still trembling and feeling weak. The attack itself had been a terrifying experience for him. He'd felt like he was going to die. He took another steadying breath.

"Mr. Quincey suffers from claustrophobia," Drew explained, defending the old man fiercely from the critical stares and mutters. "He has severe panic attacks, as you've just witnessed. Please be understanding."

The three men and two women were obviously still outraged by the whole situation, but they did not resume their collective tirade.

"We need to get out of here," Sam told Drew simply.

"I know how you're feeling, sir," Drew returned, "but please don't worry. I'm sure the power will be back any moment. We'll have you out of here soon."

"Not this time," Sam returned, but of course he couldn't explain how he knew, so he was going to have great difficulty in convincing any of them that it wasn't just the claustrophobia talking. When would he learn that there was no such thing as an easy leap?


	5. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

"How long?" Sam whispered under his breath to his observer, taking hold of the cane again as if it were a comforter.

Al didn't need clarification of the question.

"No immediate urgency, Sam," he reassured the leaper. "The elevator isn't due to drop for nearly two hours. Of course, it'll get pretty unpleasant in here long before that."

"It's no barrel of laughs now!" Sam forced a grin. "I feel like I've stepped into a disaster movie!" His left hand held the cane with a vise like grip. His right hand held his left to stop it trembling. The right hand was on its own, and struggling.

"If it were," Al decided levity was probably the best medicine, "then one of these people would be the hotel owner, or architect, who'd skimped on costs or materials and so made it unsafe. Another would be a thief with a briefcase full of booty, or a murderer, or some such criminal. Then again one of the women would be heavily pregnant and go into labor any moment. That one's big enough to be carrying quads, but given she's got arms like tree-trunks I think she's just fat! I guess she's the _Shelley Winters_ part!"

Sam shot him a reproachful look. Al merely shrugged and continued, "Now, what other cliché's do they have? Oh yeah, the claustrophobic! Seems like that's the only one we do have in here, and that's you, buddy!"

"Don't remind me," Sam hissed, taking a deep breath.

"Sorry, pal," Al offered contritely. "The sooner you get out, the more choices of escape route you'll have." Al told his friend, to give him something positive to focus on.

Sam nodded. Easier said than done though.

He glanced at the indicator over the door to see how far they still had to descend to get to safety. In keeping with the rest of the leap so far, it was no surprise to see that the dial had stopped just below level 13.

The others started to get restless again.

It was the large lady who vocalized - in a strong Italian accent - what they were all thinking, "How much longer are we going to be kept waiting? Do you realize who I am? Allegra Mancini, world-renowned soprano." She put her hand to her throat, and visibly puffed up with self-importance. "I am due to perform at Covent Garden in..." she looked at her solid gold wristwatch, "in a little under two hours. I have a car waiting for me. I need to get to the theatre and get into my costume and make up. There are some very important people waiting to hear me sing."

"Great, we got a prima donna!" Al chipped in. "I think we'd have been better off with a woman in labor!"

Sam hid a short laugh behind his hand and a forced cough. Al was incorrigible, but at least his friend's levity was helping to keep the terror at bay. The more Sam could distract himself from the awareness of his heart thudding in his chest, the better he would feel.

"I'm sure we'll be moving again any moment," Drew told her reassuringly. He tried the emergency phone again, but it was still dead.

Although Sam wanted to mobilize them into making their own escape, he didn't want them to panic. He was having enough problems keeping control of his own nerves. The last thing he needed was for the group to start screaming and yelling again.

Before the lack of communication with the outside world could worry them, Sam decided on a useful distraction.

"Thank you for introducing yourself Ms Mancini. Since we may be here for a little while yet, I suggest we all do the same. As young Mr. Stoppard told you, my name is Tobias Quincey." He inclined his head respectfully to the assembled company, determined to keep this civilized.

"Oh please, you can all just call me Drew," the young man hastily put in. He didn't warrant a "Mister" in this illustrious company. The boss would skin him alive if he heard any of the guests referring to him as Mr. Stoppard. Of course, the best he usually got was 'boy' or 'you there' or even just '10th floor', most often without even a 'please' tagged onto the end.

Sam turned to the other lady, who was younger, slimmer, and far more attractive than the opera singer, "And you are...?"

"Bryony Kingston," she smiled and held out a slender hand, encased in an elbow length midnight blue silk glove, the exact same shade as the elegant silk evening dress that adorned her elegant body.

Sam took the hand, and with a bow, kissed it gallantly.

"I am on my way to a dinner engagement in the hotel dining room with my fiancé and his parents. They will think it terribly rude of me to be so late and I did so want to make a good impression." Her accent was unmistakably British.

Sam smiled back at her. He knew the rest of her dinner party would probably be evacuated in plenty of time, but of course he couldn't tell her that.

Then he turned his attention to the three gentlemen. The first looked to be in his mid to late forties. Like Sam's host he wore a three-piece suit, though his was black. He had a bit of a paunch, which strained at the waistcoat and threatened to spill over the trouser belt.

Before Sam could ask, the man volunteered, "Woodrow Wayneforth the Fourth, at your service, sir. I am on my way to a private poker game with some business associates." Wayneforth was definitely American; though from which State Sam could not be sure. He didn't have a strong Southern drawl, or a Texan twang, or any of the other more obvious regional accents. Given time, Sam could have studied his inflections and narrowed it down, but he dismissed it as unimportant.

The second gentleman was more flamboyantly dressed. In fact, he could have stolen his attire from Al's wardrobe. On second thoughts, Sam allowed, his clothes were a bit outrageous, even for Al. He had on a pair of maroon brushed velvet striped trousers. Solid stripes alternated with ones of embossed rosebuds. The maroon suede shoes beneath were obviously expensive and made for comfort. His pale magenta shirt had ruffles at the open neck and on the cuffs - a refugee from the seventies if ever Sam had seen one. He almost expected to see a huge medallion round the man's neck. His light brown hair was well below the collar line. There was a diamond stud earring in his left lobe and a solid gold signet ring on his finger. He appeared to be early twenties in age.

"Jerome McFarlane," he introduced himself to the assembly. He was British again, but less 'aristocratic' sounding than Miss Kingston. He was probably what the others would sneeringly refer to as _nouveau riche_. Sam wouldn't have been surprised if he'd announced he was a pop star on his way to give a concert, but instead he declared, "I'm s'posed to be meeting friends for the preview at the Odeon."

That left only, "Kenneth Attenborough." His accent was Scottish. The man had a glare that could curdle milk. He was probably something like thirty-two or thirty-three, average height, average build, average everything but his temper, which from his curt manner was clearly on the short side. He was dressed in sharply creased black trousers, a crisp white shirt with solid gold cuff links, a finely pleated deep green silk cummerbund and matching bow tie. His shoes had a luster you could see your face in. He didn't volunteer where he had been headed, and nobody felt like asking him.

"If this _was_ a disaster movie," Al observed, "my money would be on him for the criminal!"

Sam didn't laugh this time, but his expression showed Al that Sam would not have bet against him.

Mr. Attenborough turned his glare on the unfortunate Drew.

"Don't just stand there, boy. Get this lift moving again!" he snapped.

The elevator responded by creaking, shuddering and then jerking downward several inches before stopping abruptly again, almost knocking them all off their feet. The emergency lighting flickered off and back on. The obese opera singer screamed shrilly again.

"Oh, boy!" breathed Sam, feeling the panic attack trying to assert itself again.


	6. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Even in the dim lighting of the emergency power, Sam could see that the other passengers were starting to feel his own sense of panic. A person didn't need to be claustrophobic to want to get out of an elevator that was stuck, but lurching randomly. He figured that the time had come for them to be receptive to the idea of self-help.

"Drew," he turned to the attendant, "I really think we should all get out of here. Will you help me organize these folks? No, please, don't tell me it's just the claustrophobia talking," he put a hand up to forestall the protest that seemed to be hovering on the young man's lips. "There's a real problem, and nobody seems to know we're here."

Drew looked around him, and looked back at the unresponsive telephone. Mr. Quincey needed to get out before his claustrophobia totally overwhelmed him. Drew was surprised that he'd recovered from his panic attack as fast as he had. He was even more surprised that the old man had not yet suffered another one. The others, Drew cared less about, but they were all angry and impatient, and the longer they remained here, the more vociferously they were liable to complain to the management once they did get to reception. He wasn't concerned about getting in trouble for not doing his job, though. If Mr. Quincey was right, and there was a fire, or some other reason the lift hadn't yet been fixed, then the longer he waited to help his passengers, the worse things could get. He genuinely wanted to do what was best for everyone. With each passing moment, getting them out seemed more and more like the most sensible thing to do.

Drew nodded to Mr. Quincey. He then turned to the door control and tested it to see if they would open at all. If they were even close to the13th level exit, it may be fairly simple to get everyone out if he could pry the outer doors apart.

Pressing the button to open the doors, Drew was not entirely surprised that they didn't slide apart with their accustomed ease. They creaked and shuddered until finally a gap of four inches or so appeared. Drew pressed the button a few more times, but the doors refused to budge any further. He then moved across and tried to pull them apart with his white-gloved hands.

Sam saw what Drew was doing, and went to help. As he did so, he told the rest of the group, "There may be a problem outside; we need to try to get out ourselves. Please try to stay calm and do as Mr. Stoppard and I tell you."

The young man shot him a pleading look, "Please, sir. Drew. I'm staff. These people--"

"--Should show you respect no matter what your rank," Sam cut in, loud enough for all to hear, even over their renewed mumbles of complaint. He hated pretentiousness. He hated people being treated badly even more. From what he'd seen so far, Drew was worth ten of any of the others, except perhaps Miss Kingston, who had smiled at the young man sympathetically when the others had been castigating him.

Drew was horrified, "Sir, _please_," he begged, "Drew's fine, honestly."

"Then only because you wish it," Sam responded firmly, with a glare at the muttering passengers. Then he turned his attention back to the doors. Sam quickly rammed the cane into the aperture, using it as a lever to enlarge the hole. Miraculously, it didn't snap. Even so, fearing they may need it again, as soon as the gap was wide enough to get his shoulder through, Sam threw the cane back inside onto the thick pile carpet.

"'A little help here?" Sam requested, as they struggled to maintain the gap they had won, and even improve upon it. The men obviously thought such manual labor beneath them.

Wayneforth folded his arms in open refusal. "Who says we have to take orders from you?"

Attenborough looked for a moment as if he would help, then decided it looked too much like hard work and stayed where he was, muttering about a bad back.

McFarlane looked like a strong breeze could knock him over, and was equally disinclined to lend assistance. Then, still reluctantly, as Sam and Drew strained to get enough of an opening to see through clearly, he finally decided to step forward.

The doors continued to resist, trying to force their way shut again, but with much heaving and perspiring and tensing of muscles, the three of them eventually got enough of a gap for Sam to force himself into sideways. Pressing his back against one door, he strained against the powerful attractive force of the heavy metal doors. They retreated a little further.

Leaning in, Drew mirrored his position and they both pushed with their backs, knees slightly bent and feet pressing firmly into the floor for stability. Soon the doors were more open than shut. McFarlane stuck his head into the gap and looked up and down. He reported that the floor of level thirteen was there, a little over a third of the way up.

"How are we supposed to open the outer doors?" the young man enquired, looking at the attendant condescendingly.

"Try my cane again," Sam suggested, nodding towards where it lay. The quicker this was done, the better. Holding the door open was really starting to hurt his back muscles.

Miss Kingston bent down and picked it up, passing it to Jerome McFarlane.

Leaning across the two human doorstops, McFarlane nervously stretched forwards over the gap between the car and the wall. With much poking and prodding and wheedling, he managed to force the tip of the cane between the doors to level 13. More wriggling and levering and the doors went their separate ways, at which point they managed to use the cane to wedge them apart.

"Will it hold?" Wayneforth asked dubiously, stepping forward to get a better overview of the arrangement. His initial thought had been to make sure he was the first one out, but on reflection, he decided to let someone else test it first.

"It should," Drew assured him. "Those doors are designed to detect if anything is passing between them and stay open, so that nobody gets their fingers caught or anything."

Sam wished the inner doors had the same imperative. The strain on his lower back muscles was becoming unbearable, and he could feel a burning, tightening pain between his shoulder blades. He was perspiring again, from the effort this time.

"I think I can get through," McFarlane declared "I'll fetch help."

McFarlane reached up, put his hands on the floor and began to haul himself up, his head and shoulders fully through the gap.

Suddenly, the elevator lurched again even more violently than before and it was only Sam's quick reflexes that enabled them to pull McFarlane and themselves back inside a split second before the descending car crushed the young man. The inner doors snapped shut like the jaws on an alligator.

All three ended up on the floor in a tangled heap. Sam was panting breathlessly, amazed to be alive. The other four had instinctively retreated and then formed a semi circle where they stood, simply staring at the trio in stunned silence; the grim reality of what had just been averted taking a while to sink in.


	7. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

"Sam? You okay, Sam?" Al bent over his friend, who was trembling and deathly white. His eyes were getting that glazed, terrified look again. He didn't respond, or even acknowledge that he saw his friend. He was hyperventilating.

"C'mon, Sam," Al chided. "Don't go all phobic on me again. These people need you to save them."

Sam shifted position enough to disentangle his legs from the other two where they had landed together, but otherwise didn't respond.

Ziggy chirped.

"Good idea, Zig," Al commented. "Sam, Ziggy says do some calculations in your head, or recite multiplication tables or chemical formulae or something. She reckons it'll calm you down. Can you hear me, Sam?"

For a while Al thought he had lost his friend to the terrors, but gradually he could see that he had gotten through, and Sam was following his advice. He observed a slight movement of the lips as Sam went through his mantra under his breath, '... tw-twenty one times nine equals one hundred and eighty nine; twenty two times nine equals one hundred and ninety eight; twenty three times nine equals two hundred and seven...'

It was a measure of how tough a battle Sam's brain was engaged in that he'd chosen something so basic, but at least he was holding his own. Al sighed with relief.

While Sam was thus regaining self-control, Drew picked himself up and, having seen that Mr. Quincey appeared physically unhurt, turned his attention to Mr. McFarlane, who hadn't moved since he landed, nor opened his eyes.

"Is he…?" Miss Kingston was the first of the others to move. She looked at the lift attendant and hoped he wouldn't make her voice her fear.

"Uh-oh, Sam," Al became aware of the others as his concern for Sam receded a notch. He consulted the hand link. "You better check him out, Sam, he doesn't look so good."

Sam took a deep breath and fought to still the tremors in his hands. Swallowing hard, he forced himself to get up off his still aching back and join Drew in looking at the fallen McFarlane.

"'You okay, Drew?" Sam asked as he moved around, guessing the young man had felt the strain of their efforts much as he had and wanting to make sure he was fit for the trials to come.

"A bit sore, but I'll be fine, thank you sir," Drew reassured him, giving his lower back a quick rub.

Sam turned his attention to McFarlane and was able to reassure the now tearful Miss Kingston. "He has a pulse," he announced. There was a collective exhalation.

Sam then lifted the eyelids and looked at each of the pupils in turn. "Looks like he may have a concussion," Sam declared, feeling the back of McFarlane's head and finding a large lump. Damn, this was a complication they could do without.

At this point the young man groaned and his eyes flickered open. His hand went to the back of his head as Sam's had just done. He groaned again, "Owwwww, my head!"

"Lie still," Sam advised, as Jerome made a feeble and short-lived attempt to sit up. "Can you tell me if it hurts anywhere else?"

McFarlane thought about it, though thinking made his head ache worse. "Dunno," he declared after a while, his voice little more than a mumble.

"Okay, just lie quiet for a while." Sam began examining him from head to toe, feeling for broken bones. He was just starting to hope they'd gotten away with it when he reached the left ankle.

"Garrrrrrrrrhhhhh," yelled McFarlane, arching his back and clenching his fists, "What the bloody hell...?"

Ms Mancini huffed and looked disapproving at this outburst. Sam ignored her.

"Sorry," Sam apologized to McFarlane sincerely, wishing he had access to an ice pack to help reduce the swelling and numb the pain. "It's broken, but at least it appears undisplaced," he pronounced.

Simultaneously, Ziggy returned her second opinion.

"_Dr. Beckett is correct," s_he corroborated. _"Jerome McFarlane has sustained a moderate concussion, in addition to a fracture to the left lateral malleolus. He does not have any internal injuries, nor is his life in immediate danger from his injuries. He should however seek medical attention at the earliest opportunity. Left untreated - especially if he puts any strain on the injury - there is a danger of the fracture displacing, leading to a vulnerability to arthritis."_

Sam took off his jacket and folded it neatly, placing it gently under the injured limb to elevate it. The waistcoat became a pillow. McFarlane groaned softly with each shift in his position.

"I don't suppose you carry a first aid kit?" Sam asked Drew, more in hope than expectation.

"I'm afraid not," Drew shook his head regretfully.

"Would my glove be any use as a temporary bandage?" Bryony offered helpfully, starting to pull on the fingers of her left glove.

Sam smiled appreciatively, but shook his head. "Thanks, but it's too stretchy, it wouldn't give enough support."

"Drew, help me please," Sam instructed, getting the attendant to smoothly raise McFarlane's lower leg and support it. "I'll be as gentle as I can, but this will probably hurt," he cautioned the invalid.

Sam then carefully proceeded to remove the shoe on the injured foot. McFarlane drew in a sharp breath, and then let it go with a shudder, followed by, "Arhhh. Shit! Shit!" He slapped the floor with the flat of his hand, emphasising each expletive.

"Well, really!" complained Allegra Mancini indignantly, obviously not used to hearing such profane language.

"Get over it!" Sam shot at her unsympathetically. He was normally pretty easy going, and tried to see the best in everyone. Right now, though, his nerves were raw as he fought not to succumb to another panic attack, and he was in no mood to suffer pomposity. He was finding Ms. Mancini and the other two men were really irking him with their self-importance and superior strutting. They were going to get a harsh reality check soon, and Sam was almost looking forward to seeing them having to swallow their pride and get with the program or die. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the uncharitable thoughts.

By contrast to the opera singer, Bryony knelt down and took hold of the young man's hand, resting his head in her lap and stroking his forehead with her other hand. "Take it easy, it'll be over soon," she encouraged. Sam spared her another grateful smile.

Sam took the handkerchief back out of his trouser pocket. Though he'd used it earlier to wipe the perspiration from his face, it was not going to have direct contact with the skin, so he'd have to risk that it would be hygienic enough. He was pleased that it was of generous dimensions. Folding it diagonally in half he made a triangle. Putting the top two corners to the centre and then folding it over in half again, he made a long narrow strip. Then he put the centre of this strip underneath McFarlane's foot, crossed it over on the top, and took the ends round to the back of the heel where he tied them together. He made sure it was a snug fit across the fractured bone, without pulling it so tight as to risk further damage. Nevertheless, McFarlane winced as Sam tied it off, and gripped Miss Kingston's hand rather tighter than was comfortable. She bravely gave him a reassuring squeeze in return, without complaint, though her eyes watered a little.

Sam met her eyes and acknowledged softly, "Thank you."

"It's far from ideal, but it should help a little until we can get you to a hospital," Sam then told his patient. "Meantime lie as still as possible."

"Thanks," McFarlane finally acknowledged, starting to nod and then thinking better of it.

"No worries," Sam returned, though personally he had quite a few right now.

"Mr. Quincey," McFarlane put out his free hand and caught Sam's arm, pulling him down so he could speak to him without raising his voice.

"What is it? Are you in pain somewhere else?" Sam looked worried. Ziggy hadn't mentioned any other injuries, but then Ziggy had been wrong before.

"I heard... I'm sure I heard... an alarm, a fire alarm! The hotel's on fire!"


	8. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Bryony gasped. "Oh, Lord – Henry!" she cried out. "Henry and his parents--"

"--Are probably safely outside by now," Sam hastened to reassure her.

The rest of the group caught her alarm, though they hadn't heard Jerome's observation. They began asking questions, all demanding answers at once again.

"What is it?"

"What's wrong?"

"What did he say?'

"What's going on?'

"There's a... a fire out there!" Bryony Kingston blurted out, before Sam could stop her.

If they had made a fuss before, it was nothing compared to the ensuing panic. All convinced they were in imminent danger of perishing, the three most obnoxious hotel guests began shouting and complaining and demanding to be rescued, as if Drew could wave a magic wand and instantly transport them to safety. Indeed, they seemed to expect no less.

Sam wanted to slap the lot of them. He couldn't help the fleeting feeling that these three at least would be no great loss to the world. He soon chided himself that it wasn't his place to judge and, with a weary sigh, prepared to do his duty and save their sorry asses.

Putting up a hand for silence he firmly ordered, "Shut up, all of you, _now_. If you want to get out of here alive, you will all do _exactly_ as I tell you, understood?"

Once more the sheer shock of being spoken to in such a manner had them stunned into silence, their mouths flapping like fish out of water. After a moment or two, they each nodded in turn.

"Good."

"Okay, since the door idea didn't pan out, looks like the only way is up!" Sam declared to no one in particular. He shot Al a look, and the observer obediently had himself re-centered on the roof of the car.

A moment later he returned. "The cables are okay for now, and the shaft isn't too smoky yet. Amazingly, the cane is still holding the doors. If you can get up through the trap door, you should be able to get out. It's only a couple of feet or so to climb down, but you need to hurry before the fire spreads down to this level."

Sam nodded. Finally they were getting a break.

"Right. Mr. Attenborough and Mr. Wayneforth. You're going to help me lift Drew up to open the trap door in the ceiling."

The two exchanged indignant looks, but neither protested aloud.

Sam had them stand directly below the escape hatch, facing each other. Due to the ornate chandelier the hatch was offset, rather than practically central as was standard in most elevators. The ceiling was also a lot higher than the usual seven feet, to prevent guests hitting their heads on the fixture.

The glares they conferred upon Sam could have had him six feet under, but he paid no attention.

"Is no good, he never do it!" Allegra observed unhelpfully, before they'd even tried.

"We're not done yet," Sam snapped. He was still barely holding his own in the battle with the claustrophobia. He hadn't the energy for niceties.

"Yeah, so don't even think of singing yet, sister!" Al put in, knowing full well she couldn't hear him but unable to resist.

Sam shot him a confused look, not getting the joke.

"Aw, c'mon Sam, surely you're not _that_ out of it?" Al chided, "Y'know the saying don'tcha? – 'It ain't over 'til the fat lady sings!' Well, they don't come much fatter than the Diva here!"

Sam couldn't decide whether to burst out laughing or lecture his friend about being unkind, but since he couldn't do either without appearing to have completely lost his mind, he settled on a stern look and a huge grin.

Aware of the ticking clock, Sam instantly turned his attention back to the matter in hand. Standing between the other two men, knees bent and with his back to them, he instructed Drew to climb up and sit on his shoulders. The other men were to steady him from either side.

Once he had completed this maneuver, Sam held Drew's legs steady while the young man reached up and undid the latches holding the trapdoor in place. It was tricky, and the human tower wobbled alarmingly several times before it was accomplished, but eventually Drew was able to push the door up and tip it out of the way.

"Well done, Drew," Sam congratulated him. "Now, go on through."

This was even trickier. Sam stood as still as he could manage, but between fighting the tremors of a threatened panic attack and trying to still the trembling of muscles too long under strain he knew he could not hold on for long.

Drew reached up and made a grab for the edge of the aperture, holding firm as he shifted position to stand on Sam's shoulders. Drew too was feeling the ache in his back from their earlier exertions, but he didn't complain. If old Mr. Quincey could endure the ordeal of supporting him, then he'd gladly do his part.

Fortunately, Drew was of slender build, and reasonably agile. Even so, he slipped on his first attempt, and Sam had to reach up and grab his leg to prevent him tumbling to the floor. Once he was sure the boy was steady, Sam carefully let go, and placed his hand, palm upward, just in front of his shoulder. Getting Drew to ease his foot forward, Sam took a firm hold of it and then carefully raised his arm, gently pushing Drew's leg up and giving him the impetus to clamber through the hole.

"Everything okay up there?" Sam enquired, hoping that Al's assessment was still valid.

Drew stuck his head back through the hole and nodded. "Looks fine."

"Right, Miss Kingston, your turn." Sam announced without preamble.

"Up there?" she swallowed hard, blanching at the prospect as she pointed at the gaping maw in the ceiling.

"Please, Miss Kingston." Sam smiled at her. "I'm afraid it's our only way out."

She looked him in the eyes and acknowledged the truth of his statement.

Sam instructed Wayneforth and Attenborough to join hands, crossed at the wrists, with his own making a triangle. This provided a crude platform onto which she could step, made easier by them bending as low as they could.

"Very well." With a resigned shrug, she kicked off her delicate high-heeled strappy silver shoes.

Even so, an evening gown was not the best attire for acrobatics and, after a couple of fumbled attempts to climb the human pyramid she ripped the side seam of her skirt with a sigh of regret.

"No peeking, boys," she instructed with a flirtatious grin as she tried again, putting a hand on Sam's shoulder, and the other on Attenborough's to push herself up. Sam knew the levity was just a device to hide her nervousness.

With Drew to help pull her up from above, she was soon standing alongside him on the roof of the car.

"Now Mr. McFarlane," Sam instructed, breaking the link to go and help him up. "He'll need a lot of help to keep the weight off that ankle."

Allegra Mancini cleared her throat loudly, "What 'appen to women and children first?"

Sam was still trying to formulate a tactful reply when Kenneth Attenborough supplied, "Because if you get your fat Italian lard-ass stuck in that hole we'll all be trapped down here."

Allegra turned away with an indignant huff that soon turned into an outpouring of tears. She reached into her purse for a handkerchief, into which she blew her nose with a noise like a trumpet of elephants.

"Really, Mr. Attenborough, there's no need for insults," Sam felt compelled to upbraid the outspoken Scotsman. She may be obese, and incredibly irritating, but nobody deserved to be spoken to like that. He put his arm around her shoulder to comfort her. "We're all feeling stressed at the moment, please take no notice."

Sam then helped Jerome up from the floor, and supported his weight as he limped to the opening. Then Sam had him sit on the other two men's clasped arms, while he turned his back, crouched down and got them to ease the young man onto his shoulders – again in a sitting position.

Once in place, Sam carefully stood up, grunting softly with the effort.

Al noticed he also winced. "You okay, buddy?"

Sam was honest enough to return a very slight shake of his head. His back muscles, already over-strained, were starting to go into spasm under the continued mistreatment. If he hadn't leaped by then, he'd be stiff as a board in the morning.

"I know you're probably feeling dizzy and disoriented, Mr. McFarlane. I'm sorry to have to put you through this, but we need you to cooperate as best you can. Please raise your arms as high as you can over your head."

After a moment or two looking bewildered, Jerome complied.

Somehow, with Sam pushing from below, and both Drew and Bryony leaning down and grabbing an arm each, they managed to ease him through the gap.

"You're next, Mr. Attenborough," Sam decided. It was getting harder to work out the mechanics as the number of people in each location shifted.

"Mr. Wayneforth, cup your hands together in front of you please, give Mr. Attenborough a boost up," Sam instructed, before turning his back ready to receive yet another burden. Being shorter, and given that McFarlane was not able lend much assistance – though to give him his due, he tried – it took a lot longer and far more manhandling to get Attenborough through the gap.

As they finally achieved it, the car lurched again. Allegra screamed in Sam's ear, and this time Bryony echoed it as those on top all flattened themselves to the floor and clutched at the edge of the aperture in terror of being tipped off and plunging to their deaths.


	9. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

The car had dropped another couple of feet, knocking those inside off theirs too. It was making alarming creaking noises as it strained on its cables.

"Everyone okay?" Sam asked, trying not to think about how loudly his own heart was pounding in his chest, or how his stomach was doing flips.

Nods from below and mutters from above soon let him know there were no new injuries, though a fair amount of shock was evident all round. McFarlane swore again as the jarring sent stabbing pains from his injured ankle.

Woodrow Wayneforth had instinctively grabbed Sam's arm to steady himself as they got back to their feet, and was still gripping it tightly. He pulled Sam around to face him; "You _have_ to get us out of here!"

_What happened to 'Who says we have to take orders from you?' _Sam wondered, rolling his eyes. He was not in the least surprised by the absence of a 'please' from Wayneforth. Sam could see from Al's expression that his friend found this turn-around amusing. Were their roles reversed, Al may well have shot the arrogant nozzle a snide comeback, but that was not Sam's nature.

"I've every intention of doing so," he said instead, "if you'll kindly remove your hand from my arm before it goes totally numb."

Wayneforth took his hand away and looked at it for a moment, as if wondering how it had gotten there in the first place. For a split second it looked as if he was about to apologize to Sam for grabbing him so roughly, but the moment passed without event.

Sam rubbed at his arm, but didn't push it. Though manners cost nothing, he couldn't afford the time to make an issue of it. In other circumstances he'd have delighted in teaching Wayneforth a lesson in humility, but this was neither the time nor the place.

Naturally, the American declined to assist Sam in helping Ms Mancini to get up. It was consequently an inelegant affair, and a renewed strain on Sam's back, but after a couple of bungled attempts, Sam managed to get her to her feet.

Sam turned his attention to the group above them, who had carefully regained their feet and were now clinging to each other, seemingly too terrified to move further. He could hear Drew calmly reassuring them, but they appeared unwilling to heed his advice as to how to proceed.

"Miss Kingston," Sam called out gently, "can you hear me?"

"Y-yes, Mr. Quincey," she replied, her voice shaky.

"Listen carefully," Sam began, "I want you and Mr. Attenborough to go out through the doors, and then have Drew pass Mr. McFarlane across to you. Once you're clear, don't wait for us. Mr. Attenborough, you need to support Mr. McFarlane. Make sure he keeps his weight off that ankle. Head for the stairwell and get downstairs. Don't panic, take it nice and steady, but keep heading down. If you happen to see anyone from rescue services let them know we're up here. Do you understand?"

"If you think that's best," Bryony answered uncertainly.

"I want you off the car before it moves again," Sam reasoned and Attenborough for one mumbled his agreement.

"I'm not sure it's such a good idea to split up, Sam." Al cautioned.

"We'll catch you up as soon as we can," Sam reassured both Bryony and his friend. "Drew, once you've helped them out, stay there and help me with these other folks, okay?"

"Yes, sir," Drew replied, grateful for the assistance with the awkward guests, and even more grateful that taking charge seemed to be helping the old boy to stay in control of his claustrophobia. Mr. Quincey was the one he'd have most expected to go totally to pieces in a situation like this, yet he seemed to be the calmest of them all. Drew hoped he would remain so, but knew the panic attacks could strike at any time without warning.

Sam could hear them hesitantly moving about above, and feel the vibrations as their weight shifted over. The two remaining passengers in the car with him began to pace nervously.

"I think it would be safest if we moved to the back of the elevator," Sam told them, a trifle snappily. He was relieved that they followed his example without argument, though they seemed puzzled as to why they were doing so. "To counter-balance their weight above," he explained, "Keep the car as steady as possible." Not to mention steadying his nerves, which were fraying at the edges again and in imminent danger of totally unraveling. The panic was there all the time, bubbling just below the surface, waiting for him to loose his fragile grip. Keeping busy and concentrating on the problem of getting everyone to safety was helping, but it was getting harder and harder to ignore the irrational fear that gnawed at his innards and made him want to scream and cry, and run and curl up and hide in a dark corner all at once.

"Hang in there, Sam," Al encouraged, seeing by the look in Sam's eyes that he was barely in control. "You're doing great, kid."

Sam smiled at him weakly, but was dismayed to find it instantly turned into a nervous twitch of his facial muscles. He ran his hand down his face, closing his eyes for a moment to compose himself.

"Hold on, I'll be right back, pal," Al then announced, preparing to key a command into the hand link.

Sam looked up at him in alarm, his face pleading not to be abandoned. Sam began trembling again. He realized he was grinding his teeth and every muscle in his body was coiled tighter than a watch spring. He was having palpitations. He was sure his blood pressure was going through the roof.

"It's okay," Al hastily reassured him, "I'm not leaving you, Sam. I'm just gonna check up top and see how they're getting on, okay buddy?"

Sam looked as if he could burst into tears any second. He certainly didn't seem as if he was okay with the notion of Al leaving his sight for even a second. Nevertheless, he pressed his lips together and held his breath for a moment, then gave his consent with a short sharp nod. His eyes qualified that permission with the silent instruction to hurry back.

"I'll be back before you know it," Al promised, and had himself re-centered onto the roof.

True to his word, Al returned almost immediately, smiling reassuringly. "They're filthy from all the dust and the grime up there, but they're doing okay," he reported. "The car roof is almost level with the floor now, so they only have to step down a few inches."

Yet since time had seemed to stand still in his absence, Sam had long enough to have missed Al, and to fall deep into the clutches of the phobia. Al realized his words had fallen on deaf ears as he found Sam slumped against the rear wall of the elevator car, clutching his chest as if he were having a heart attack.

Sam was completely unaware of Al's return. He was too busy struggling to breathe, feeling as if he were suffocating. He was bent double with crippling stomach pains and had a splitting headache. He moaned softly. He felt awful. A tiny part of his rational mind knew that his symptoms were merely a manifestation of his host's phobia and were irrational and unnecessary. The greater part of him was lost to a catalogue of complaints that had him feeling totally wretched and convinced he was about to breathe his last.

"Sam?" Al addressed him cautiously; afraid he would startle his friend. Sam didn't respond. This panic attack had a far tighter grip than its predecessor. It had evidently come on very suddenly, and completely overwhelmed the normally levelheaded Dr. Beckett. He was a gibbering wreck.

"I'll never get everyone out," Sam mumbled, clutching now at his head in total despair mingled with abject terror. "I'll never get everyone out," he said again, and then repeated it over and over, as he rocked back and forth. "I'll never get everyone out. I'll never get everyone out."

"Course you will," Al reassured him, though he didn't dare ask Ziggy to confirm it. "C'mon, buddy, snap out of it. It's just the phobia talking. You can do it, buddy, I know you can. C'mon, Sam."

Sam stared straight through his holographic friend as if he no more saw him than the other two did.

Meanwhile, Allegra Mancini and Woodrow Wayneforth were staring at each other. Neither one wanted to approach the madman on the floor, yet both felt their lives were in his hands and wanted him back to being in charge of their rescue. They hadn't a clue what to do for themselves.

"Sam, listen to me, buddy, take your mind off it like before, huh? Do some Math or quote some theorems or something."

Sam continued to stare into space, muttering under his breath. His hands were now wandering rapidly over his arms and torso, as if trying to brush off something that was crawling on him.

Al crouched down in front of him, trying to get Sam to look at him, but without success. He kept talking – softly, calmly, reassuringly – but he didn't think any of it was getting through. Al started to worry that Sam's pronouncement was going to become a self-fulfilling prophecy.


	10. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

_...Spiders! Euwww, spiders everywhere, crawling all over me! What if they bite me? Get off! Where did they come from? So many, they're all crawling inside my clothes, they're everywhere. Go away; get off me! Nasty horrid tickly itchy beasties. Get them off me. Get off, get off, get OFF!!! There's too many of them..._

"Ziggy!" Al cried out in desperation, hammering on his hand link. "We gotta find a way to get through to Sam, right now! Time's running out."

Help was instantly forthcoming, though not from the parallel hybrid computer.

Drew had realized what was happening, and lowered himself back down through the hole. He hurried over to Mr. Quincey, asking the other two to stand back, which they did without even a murmur of protest about the lowly lift attendant giving them orders. Perhaps they were starting to learn, but they still had a long way to go. Throughout the perturbing scene that followed, they kept to the opposite corner of the car and turned their backs, as if it were beneath their dignity to even acknowledge the other man's distress.

"Mr. Quincey?" Drew crouched down and gently placed a hand on the old man's shoulder to help still his trembling.

_Aaaaaaah, what was that? Something touched me. Get off! Something's attacking me. Let go! It's choking me. It's smothering me. I can't breathe. I'm getting dizzy. It's trying to kill me! I have to get it off me. Go away! Leave me alone! Arrrh! Everything's closing in around me. I have to get out; I have to get away. I can't move, my body won't respond. Oh, God I'm paralyzed. I can't see, I'm going blind, I'm going crazy, I'm dying, I'm..._

"Take a deep breath, Mr. Quincey," Drew advised. He could see by the rapid darting of the old man's eyes and the short panting breaths that he was deep in the grip of an anxiety attack. He was probably having the scary hallucinations again. Although the old man was flailing his arms around wildly as if trying to push him away, Drew did not back off. Instead, he gently restrained his friend so that he didn't hurt himself. "It's all right, sir, I'm here, it'll be all right. Try to calm down."

_What? Who said that? Said what? What's going on? I dunno. I'm pinned down, like a moth on a collector's display board - a specimen being studied. I can't move. Shut up, I'm trying to listen. Listen to who? I dunno, shh. Oh, look, there's a stain on the carpet – that should have been cleaned, tut tut. It looks like a poodle. Haha, a puddle that looks like a poodle. Who cares? Will somebody please stop that damn bell ringing? It's just your ears, stupid. Dammit, I really am going crazy, now I'm talking to myself. What's happening to me? You just said it, Beckett; you're going crazy: Hahaha, hehehe you're going crazy, you're going crazy, na-na na-na-na. SHUT UP! Oh, God, help me, somebody help me…_

"H-help m-m-me," Sam whimpered, neither knowing nor caring at whom his plea was aimed.

"I'm right here, Sam. It's me – Al - your buddy. Over here, Sam - look at me, pal." Al implored him. "It's okay, it's gonna be okay, you just need to listen to my voice and calm down, okay? Can you do that for me?"

Sam was perspiring profusely.

_Where am I? How did I get in here? Its... oh God... it's a giant microwave! I can see the walls glowing! I can smell the heat. I can feel my muscles heating up. Phew, I'm so hot. I'm burning up. I'm cooking alive from the inside out! Oh boy, I'm so dizzy. This is it - this is the end. What a way to die!_

"Sam, you need to calm down and look at me, buddy. You need to get a grip. You are Dr. Sam Beckett and you have a job to do. You have to save these people, Sam. There's not much time, do you hear me? So snap out of it, okay? C'mon back to the land of the lucid. We need you, Sam. You can do it. I know you can." Al still didn't check the odds with Ziggy. Right now, he didn't need any further discouragement. He didn't need the cold calculations of the super computer to know that Sam was in a real bad place right now.

Drew took out his own handkerchief and dabbed the old man's forehead gently. "I'm here, sir. Drew, remember? Can you hear me, Mr. Quincey?" Drew asked softly.

"N-no need to sh-shout." Sam put his hands over his ears. Everything seemed to be in extra sharp focus all of a sudden.

"Sam? You okay, Sam?" Al brushed absently at his face, hoping his friend wouldn't notice the glistening in his eye. Sam seemed to have snapped back as suddenly as he'd zoned out.

Sam looked from Al to Drew and back again, a puzzled expression on his face.

"Numb," he muttered. He clenched and unclenched his fists. "Euwww, tingly, crawly." He shuddered as the weird feeling enveloped him all over.

"That's normal, sir, remember?" Drew told him. "Try to stand up, get the circulation going."

Sam tried to stand, with Drew's support. His legs started shaking – violent tremors that made it hard to keep to one spot, like saplings in a hurricane. He could feel a tingling running the length of his spine, in his hands and feet, his face, and even his tongue.

"Steady, there, sir." Drew held his elbow, and put a hand behind his back. "Take it slowly, Mr. Quincey."

"Is he over it?" Al asked, both of the heedless Drew, and the all-knowing Ziggy.

"Dr. Beckett is still feeling some residual effects of the panic attack, Admiral. His pulse and respiratory rate are both rapid; blood pressure elevated. However, I believe he has survived the worst of it."

"Legs feel like jelly," Sam observed, as they gave way beneath him. Drew caught him mid-slump, and eased him back against the wall.

"So tired." Sam declared, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

"Take it easy, sir." Drew advised, "Just try to breathe slowly and naturally."

"Oh God, that was so scary!" Sam whispered to his invisible friend. "You wouldn't believe some of the crazy, irrational thoughts I was having." He shuddered again. A shaky hand tracked across his forehead, as if to erase the recollection of his nightmare imaginings.

"That was the worst attack you've had in weeks," Drew confirmed.

"I feel sick," Sam declared weakly, "and… exhausted. I need to sleep now." He slumped further down and curled up in the corner of the elevator car.

"Sorry, pal, no can do," Al informed him regretfully. "I know you're wiped out, Sam, but you gotta hang in there or you're all gonna die. There's not much time left."

"How long was I out of it?" Sam wanted to know, wrapping his arms protectively around his torso and hugging himself as if afraid he'd literally as well as emotionally fall apart if he didn't. "It felt like hours."

"Only seven minutes, Sam," Al informed him, "but it sure felt a lot longer to me too. You had me worried sick, buddy."

"It was only a few minutes, sir," Drew confirmed, "I'm surprised you came out of it so soon to be honest. The first attack I witnessed wasn't anywhere near as severe, but you were delirious for twice as long. You probably don't remember but I had to help you back to your room that time. You told me next day that it was nearly an hour before you'd fully calmed down. Then you slept the whole of the rest of the day."

"I can't exactly say I'm calm now," Sam confessed, holding a hand out in front of him to show it was still trembling. "I feel like hell."

At last the other passengers deigned to acknowledge his existence, if only for the Diva to tut again at his choice of language. Wayneforth even showed an ounce of compassion. He reached into his inside jacket pocket and drew out a monogrammed silver flask.

"Here, have a snort of this. A drop of whiskey'll soon steady your nerves."

"Thanks," Sam acknowledged with a nod, "but no thanks. I don't think clouding my judgment with alcohol is going to help us get out of here." His head felt muzzy enough as it was. It was taking all his will power not to throw up or pass out, or both.

"Suit yourself," Wayneforth shrugged. He held it out to Ms Mancini in silent invitation, but she declined with a slight wave of her hand. Her expression hinted that she'd have liked to accept, but would not lower herself to drink from a common flask. Ignoring Drew, who would have turned it down anyway, Wayneforth shrugged again before taking a swig himself.

"You should go easy on that," cautioned Sam, but he could see that the advice was unlikely to be heeded. In fact, Wayneforth defiantly tipped the flask and took a deeper draught of the liquid.

"Save your breath, Sam," advised Al.

Sam nodded resignedly. Then, with a weary sigh and some welcome assistance from the ever-attentive Drew, he struggled to his feet again and prepared to resume his mission impossible.


	11. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Sam was running on sheer adrenalin now. He drew on reserves of strength and courage that he was amazed he still possessed. Damn but he was tired. The sooner this leap was over the better. Then he could rest. He craved rest like a junkie craves his next fix - with a yearning aching need.

"Anyone else want outa here? Cos I for one don't feel much like hanging round and waiting for another panic attack." Even the thought of it made him tremble. He swallowed hard, determined not to give in again to the ever-present fear.

"How?" Allegra Mancini wanted to know, her voice cracking with repressed emotion. She looked up at the hole in the ceiling and then down at her ample bosom and equally ample everything else. She'd obviously watched the others climbing out the hatch and realized that she was the camel and it was a needle's eye. Kenneth Attenborough had been right. There was no way in the world that she would ever get through. Tears underlined the fear in her eyes. They were all going to escape and leave her to die alone.

For a second time, Sam put a comforting arm round Allegra's shoulder. "Don't worry, I have no intention of abandoning you," he reassured her. Suddenly, in her vulnerability, she seemed less irritating than before.

"Ziggy's been working on it, but I don't know what to tell you, Sam. There's not a hope in hell of getting her through that opening – even if you had all the men – and a crane! - up there to help haul her through."

"I've been thinking about it," Sam told them all. "Drew, how far down is it to floor twelve?"

Realizing where Sam was going with his enquiry, Al put the question, and the resulting scenario, into Ziggy's interface.

"Each storey is fifteen feet from floor to ceiling, sir. " Drew looked at the old man with a puzzled frown. He didn't have a clue where this was leading. "The lift car is ten feet high."

"Add another six inches, a foot at most for joists etc. Right." Sam seemed to be thinking aloud. Then he said to the general assembly, "So, given that the top of the car's already more or less flush with the floor up here now, it can't be much farther 'til it lines up with the doors on 12? Say, five or six feet – maybe seven at a stretch?" It was clear how shaky Sam was still feeling by the fact he even felt the need to calculate aloud. Normally, such reckonings would be virtually subconscious.

Al shook the hand link as it squealed, and then read off the result of his inquiry.

"It's do-able, Sam, but it won't be easy and you'll have to hurry whilst at the same time keeping it smooth and steady. Ziggy says 51% you can get her out on the next level if Wayneforth goes ahead and props the outer doors open. It'll be tough going though and you need to be very careful not to jar it too much or you'll all..." Al didn't say it, but a whistling sound while his hand made a swift downward pointing motion made his meaning clear.

"Right, let's get to it." Sam declared, explaining to Wayneforth that he was to help get Drew and himself onto the roof and then go ahead and open the doors on the floor below.

Accordingly, Sam and Drew proceeded to heave Woodrow Wayneforth up through the hatch - whereupon he immediately turned and made his escape through the outer doors with no regard for anyone but himself. Sam couldn't make out his parting remark, but guessed it was something along the lines of 'So long, suckers!'

"Typical!" observed Al. "What a nozzle."

"I suppose that means he won't bother with the doors either. Now what do we do, sir?"

"We'll worry about the doors once we get down there." Sam decided. Al vanished for a fleeting moment and returned smiling.

"Bad news is Wayneforth is scurrying down the stairs as we thought. Good news, Sam, is that the first wave must have decided it would be a good idea for you to have a backup plan. Probably that Miss Kingston. Anyway, there's a chair propping the door open on level 12. So get to it."

"All right, my dear Drew," Sam informed the young man, "Now to emulate a couple of campanologists!"

"Sorry, sir?" Drew continued to look perplexed.

"Okay, we may not be ringing any bells, but we're going to be pulling on some ropes. Elevator cables to be precise." Sam explained.

"Ms Mancini," Sam turned his attention to the remaining passenger. "I need you to sit down on the floor and keep as still as possible to minimize any swaying of the car."

She looked as if she was about to protest indignantly, but she remained silent. She was obviously not in the habit of sitting on the floor, especially not in a clearly expensive and beautifully elegant Victorian style off the shoulder purple evening gown. She was probably secretly scared too that once down, she'd have trouble standing up again. Agility and Allegra had parted company a good many years, not to mention pounds, ago.

Sam spread out his jacket, which was still on the floor from when he'd used it to make McFarlane more comfortable. He did likewise with the waistcoat, fashioning a makeshift blanket for her to sit on. Sam asked Drew to remove his deep red uniform jacket to add to the surface area. Though he was supposed to wear it at all times while on duty, these were exceptional circumstances, so Drew did not hesitate to comply. Besides, between the failure of the air conditioning and the heat from the approaching fire outside it was getting hotter by the minute. He was glad to be able to cool off a bit. Drew was rather ashamed to realize that his own shirt bore perspiration stains under the armpits and – by the damp feeling that the air made him suddenly aware of – in the middle of his back, almost as much as Mr. Quincey's did. This was no time to worry about appearances though.

Between them, they managed to get the opera singer seated moderately comfortably, leaning against a wall.

"We'll have you out of here before you know it," Sam reassured her.

"Mille grazie senor," she responded, more graciously than she had said anything else all evening.

With nobody left to help him, Sam felt the strain of hoisting Drew on his shoulders even more than before, but stoically bore the weight as the boy rose up and disappeared.

The next stage was even tougher. Drew lay flat on the roof, and his upper torso reappeared through the aperture, stretching his hands down exactly as instructed. Sam stretched up and tried to make contact with Drew's wrists. It took several attempts, with Drew shifting position to lower his arms as much as he dare, and Sam feeling as if his arms were going to pop out of their sockets. Finally, they made firm contact. The process reminded Sam of the time he'd leaped into a trapeze artist, but he tried not to dwell on the memory. He'd had more than enough of phobic reactions for one leap without reliving his fear of heights from that experience.

With gravity against him, and Drew being so small and light, it was no mean feat for them to get Sam up and through the gap. Had he been at full strength to start with it would have been wearing. As it was, after the draining effects of the panic attacks, Sam now felt way beyond exhausted. Having finally got up onto the roof of the elevator, Sam practically collapsed and lay for a moment, breathless and unable to move. He wanted nothing more than to be allowed to go to sleep, but he knew he couldn't.

"Are you all right, sir?" Drew asked, deeply concerned. Mr. Quincey was far from a young man, and he was pushing himself beyond the limits that should be expected of a man half his age.

"You okay, Sam?" Al enquired simultaneously.

Sam held up a single digit, indicating that they should give him a minute. In fact, he allowed himself much less than that. He took a couple of gulping breaths and then rolled over and pushed himself up.

"Don't look down, Sam," Al advised, to which Sam merely nodded. He didn't want to even think about how far up they were and, more to the point, what a long way it was to fall.

"Ready?" he asked Drew, as if it had been the young man who had been holding up proceedings. Sam pulled his sleeves down over his hands, poking his thumbs through the slits by the cuff buttons to protect his palms. Luckily the shirt was not too tight a fit to start with, but even so it strained the underarm seams somewhat.

Drew nodded.

They positioned themselves either side of the cables, feet slightly apart for stability. There was a brake on the pulley wheel that was designed to deploy when the lift stopped at each floor. This had stuck on. After a struggle, Sam eased it off slightly with his heel. Then they began very carefully tugging on the heavy twisted steel cords, trying to feed them through the pulley wheel, hoping to ease the car down smoothly. The cables were greasy, but Drew's gloves and Sam's sleeves helped them keep their grip.

The cables creaked and groaned, the car trembled. For a few anxious moments it looked as if the task were too onerous, the weight too much for two men to shift alone. Then the whole thing shifted with a jerk, and they had to struggle to keep to their feet. Having got it moving, Sam made sure they maintained a rhythm to try and keep it that way.

Inevitably, having come unstuck, the car then began to pick up a little speed, and they found themselves trying to rein it back to keep it from crashing down. Their hands started to suffer friction burns, despite the cloth protection, but against the odds they were managing to keep control. Sam spared a moment to cast his eyes upward in gratitude that the unlikely plan was actually working.

"Nearly there, Sam," Al encouraged.

On a signal from Al, Sam pressed his foot against the brake with all his might – such as it was at this point – to bring the car to a gentle halt. They both grasped the cables as tight as they could bear to keep them from slipping.

Sparks flew. The cables whined.

Drew lent his weight to the brake. The car juddered.

The top of the floor 12 doors appeared as they screeched to a halt.

"Yesss!" Al punched the air triumphantly. They had done it.

Before Sam or Drew could catch their breath, Al suddenly yelled a warning...

Then the cable snapped.


	12. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Sam reacted to Al's cry with lightening reflexes. Which was just as well as everything happened in a split second.

He pushed Drew toward the opening created by the plummeting car and jumped after.

Drew sailed over the makeshift doorstop, landed and rolled clear.

Sam was not so lucky.

The disconnected cable whipped wildly and rapidly like a rattlesnake in a whirlwind, and caught Sam a glancing blow on the back of his right leg, just above the knee.

It was enough to knock him off course, and he barely managed to grab hold of the lower edge of the aperture with one hand, his body slamming against the wall and then swinging precariously.

"Don't look down, Sam!" Al warned again, his voice laden with urgency, but it was too late.

Even as he struggled instinctively to get a purchase with his other hand, Sam's head turned past his flailing legs and he watched the elevator car get smaller and disappear into the depths below.

The shrill sound of Allegra Mancini screaming continued to fill their ears for long moments, and then everything went eerily silent.

Then Drew was there, reaching down and grabbing Sam's hand, pulling him toward safety. The chair was impeding his ability to reach, so Drew yanked it out of the way, using his own body to keep the doors from closing.

Sam wasn't helping the process at all. He was staring vacantly at the spot where he'd last seen the car, and his body was rigid with shock and fear.

While there had been a solid surface beneath their feet, it had been relatively easy for Sam to blot out any conscious thought of the deep shaft below. Now, he was all too aware of the drop, and his fear of heights was kicking in with a vengeance.

Al pressed a few buttons on his hand link, and had himself re-centered so that he was only inches from Sam's face, interrupting his line of sight.

"Sam. Sam? Can you hear me, Sam?" Al waved his hand in front of Sam's eyes, but he didn't so much as blink.

"C'mon buddy, snap out of it," Al begged, snapping his fingers as if trying to wake Sam from a hypnotist's trance.

Sam remained paralyzed.

Drew was worn out by recent events and really struggling to keep a grip on the dangling figure. He wouldn't give up though.

"Come on, sir. You can make it," he panted. His gloves were now ragged, and his hands tender and raw from the cable, but he held on and heaved for all he was worth. Sam's hands were similarly damaged, metal splinters were embedded in the heels of his thumbs, and the friction burns were making the discolored flesh sting. He showed no indication of being aware of the discomfort.

"Yeah, c'mon, Sam. Up, up, up, up, up!" Al exhorted him, as if he were a parent trying to get a lazy teenager out of bed.

Eventually, by sheer will power, Drew hauled Sam through the opening, and they both collapsed to the floor. The doors slid shut as they cleared the aperture. Drew was laughing with relief.

"Thank God!" Al sighed.

Taking barely a moment to catch his breath, Drew turned his attention to Mr. Quincey once more. The old man was lying stiff and staring into space. For an awful minute, Drew thought he was dead.

"No! Don't you die on me!" he cried. He felt for a pulse in the neck. It was somewhat erratic and not that strong, but it was there.

"Sam? Buddy? You hurt?" Al asked, bending down on the other side of the stricken man. Getting no response from the horse's mouth Al then interrogated Ziggy, but with equal lack of information forthcoming.

Drew gently patted Sam's cheeks, his hands, his arms, trying to elicit a response. He got nothing.

"Guess I'm gonna have to carry you," he declared, bending to position Sam so that he could drape him over his shoulder. He grunted with the effort, his back protesting the renewed strain.

"Huh?" Sam mumbled, still more out of it than aware.

"Sir?"

"Sam?"

"Gnah."

"Don't worry, sir, I'll get us out," Drew promised, trying again to lift his burden.

Sam seemed to be vaguely aware of him at last. He shook his head slightly.

"Leave me," he whispered hoarsely. "Save yourself."


	13. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

"Sam, no!" Al couldn't believe what he was hearing. Surely Sam wasn't that badly hurt? Ziggy was still being typically reticent to give a straight answer to a simple question.

"Go!" Sam commanded the young man.

"Sorry, sir. No can do." Drew looked him in the eye and smiled. "You're a guest. I'm responsible for you."

"Just go." Sam said again. "Save yourself. Please."

Drew deliberately sat down. He wasn't sure if Mr. Quincey was mortally injured, or just in shock, or what, but he was not leaving without his friend.

"Listen, sir. I wouldn't leave _anyone_ up here to die. Not even those folks who were mean to me. So I certainly have no intention of abandoning _you_."

Drew realized that Sam's leg was bleeding. He tore a strip from his shirt tail and made a crude bandage to tie around the wound. Sam didn't cry out, or wince or show any sign he was aware what the young man was doing.

"What's going on in that head of yours, Sam?" Al asked.

He was afraid he knew the answer already. It was starting to sink in that Allegra Mancini had perished in the elevator, and Sam was feeling guilty at not having saved her. In his shock and self-condemnation, he'd decided he had no right to be saved himself.

"Doesn't matter," Sam mumbled. "Nothing matters."

_Yup_, thought Al. _He's on a guilt trip_.

"What matters is that you've saved four lives already, and you two are still alive too." Al reminded him.

Al wasn't blaming Sam for the way he was feeling. He could understand how it was eating his friend up. Sam's heart was as big as a mountain. He cared. He cared too much for his own good.

"Giving up and letting yourself fry isn't going to bring her back, Sam." Al told him, sounder rather more callous than he'd intended.

Sam just turned his head away.

"I'm no doctor, sir." Drew pointed out, "So I'm sorry if you're hurt and I make it worse by moving you. But that fire's gonna get us if we don't shift now."

There was smoke on this level now, and flames starting to lick at the far end of the corridor. They would have trouble keeping ahead of it as it was.

"Now, can you walk, or do you want me to carry you?" Drew would carry the old man every step if he had to. Even if it killed him.

"Leave me." Sam muttered again.

"No, sir." Drew shook his head emphatically, "No way. Never." Why was Mr. Quincey being so stubborn?

Al admired the kid. He had a good heart too. He had also given Al exactly the ammunition he needed, "He means it, Sam."

"He'll stay here and die if you don't go with him, Sam. Do you want Drew to die too?"

Sam turned slowly back to face his friend. He still looked despondent, but at least there was a flicker of the old Beckett determination.

"No," he uttered with conviction, but softly, so that only Al could hear.

"Help me up," he commanded Drew, awkwardly undoing the cuff buttons so that the shirt sleeves were no longer over his hands. The underarm seams were both ripped, unable to withstand the strain of his recent acrobatics.

"Thank goodness!" Drew obeyed at once. The old man winced as he stood, bending forward slightly and holding his left lower arm to his chest. Before Drew could question him about it, Mr. Quincey had taken a purposeful step toward the stairwell. As soon as he tried to put his weight on his right leg he stumbled, but Drew caught him. He hoped the old man wasn't having a heart attack, which was entirely possible in the circumstances.

"Please, sir, let me help," Drew insisted, putting the old man's right arm over his shoulder, and his own left arm behind Mr. Quincey's back so he could help support the injured man.

"It's not serious. Just a superficial cut." Sam assured him. "Stings like crazy, though!" he confessed.

And so they began their hobbling descent of the stairs. Neither spoke, concentrating on breathing through the increasingly smoky air and keeping their footing on the ill-lit stairway.

Al didn't speak either for a long while. He knew he could offer little comfort to his friend, who was not yet ready to be consoled.

He didn't bother to point out that Sam might still leap, since that was probably far from the time traveler's mind at this moment. Accepting that he might leap despite failing to save a marriage, or a school production, or something equally trivial in the grand scheme of things might be all well and good. Failing to save a life was something else altogether. Right now, Sam's thoughts would not be on his own future but on the fact that Allegra wouldn't have one despite the second chance. It wasn't fair.

Round about level five both Drew and Sam started flagging. Given that heat rises, the air should have become more breathable as they descended. It wasn't working out that way.

The fire was indeed literally 'hot on their heels', making the air thick with cloying, choking smoke and the heat overwhelming. The metal handrail was hot to the touch and, given their already sore palms, they were unable to take advantage of its stabilizing properties.

Both men were starting to feel dizzy and disoriented. They couldn't focus on anything around them. Their breathing was getting ragged and punctuated with increasingly frequent coughs. It was like being trapped in a vat of scorched cotton candy.

Al kept a step or two ahead and talked now to try and keep Sam focused.

"You're more than half way now, buddy," Al informed him.

"Keep going. You need to keep moving, Sam. I know you're tired, but it's not that much further. You gotta get this kid to safety, Sam."

Al made sure he kept to the immediate matter in hand, and that Sam had no time to dwell on anything but his current mission to make sure Drew got out alive. Of course, the corollary to that was that Sam would get out safely too, but Al didn't draw his attention to that aspect.

By the time they passed the door to level two, Drew was really struggling to keep Sam upright. Both were exhausted and stumbling more or less on automatic pilot, not thinking beyond the next step, the next breath.

Thus, they failed to notice the firemen coming up to meet them until they had almost knocked into one of them.


	14. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

"Looks like we got 'em, boys!" the fireman turned and announced to his colleagues through his breathing apparatus. Then he turned back to Drew.

"Miss Kingston said there were still some folks left in here. We're surprised to find you so far down. Are you the last?" He had to shout to make himself heard through the protective mask.

"I'm… not… sure sir," Drew answered honestly, finding that talking was an enormous strain, "I think so."

Anyone left in the building now had little chance of making it out alive.

The lead fireman, whose helmet identified him as Captain Peters, turned to his colleagues again, "Brown, Murphy, get them out. Hunt, you're with me." He pointed up the staircase to indicate they would check a bit further for possible survivors.

He moved to the side to allow the two descending men to pass him. It was only when they were level that Sam acknowledged his existence.

He paused; looking perplexed for a moment and then seemed to recognize the uniform.

"She's dead," he declared in a hoarse whisper, his eyes lowering to the step beneath him.

"His wife?" the fireman asked Drew, noting Sam's miserable expression.

"No sir," Drew replied croakily. "Ms Mancini - the opera singer. We were in the lift. It jammed. Mr. Quincey got us all out." Drew coughed dryly.

"Not all." Sam corrected. "I should have saved her. She shouldn't have died."

"You did all you could sir," Drew reassured him, "More than anyone could have expected..."

"Not enough," Sam stated flatly. "I was supposed to save her. If I hadn't given in to that panic attack there would have been time, I could have saved her. It was my fault."

"No, sir. I'm the attendant. The safety of the guests is my responsibility. If anyone failed her it was me."

Al looked at Drew. Seemed like he was on a bit of a guilt trip of his own. The kid was as kind hearted as Sam. Al felt he had to put his own two cents worth in, even though only Sam could hear him.

"Personally, I think if anyone's to blame it's that nozzle Wayneforth. If he'd pulled his weight and helped get you two up topside instead of bailing on you, you'd have had longer..."

"I'm sure you both did your best," the one called Murphy told them. "But this is neither the time nor the place to debate it. Let's go, gentlemen."

The other one, Brown, passed Sam a breathing mask that was attached to a small oxygen tank, encouraging him to take a couple of shallow breaths to clear his lungs. It was then handed to Drew with a caution not to inhale too deeply lest it make him lightheaded.

"Better?" Brown asked them both, and got muted nods in response.

"It's not far now," Murphy promised them. "Here, let me," he moved to take over Drew's position as Sam's human crutch.

Drew shook his head, "I can manage." He was worn out, and could barely stand himself, but he had sworn to get Mr. Quincey out, and he intended to see it through to the end.

"I thought… I was… meant… to be rescuing… you," Sam told him.

"You did, sir. Now I'm just returning the favor."

Murphy wasn't going to stand around arguing the point. He allowed Drew to continue propping Sam up, but kept close in case either should need further assistance.

As they completed their descent, Brown radioed ahead that medical attention would be needed.


	15. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

Accordingly, they were met by a couple of paramedics – a bald man of around forty-seven and a tall willowy youth in his early twenties - as they emerged from the remains of the building a few minutes later. The firemen explained that they were likely suffering from smoke inhalation, as borne out by the dry hacking coughs they both displayed. They also indicated that both men appeared to have various minor injuries.

Close behind the paramedics stood a disheveled but unhurt Bryony Kingston, in the comforting arms of her beloved Henry, looking very relieved to see them both.

She immediately began enquiring of the paramedics if they were going to be all right.

"If you let us examine them, Madam, we'll be better able to tell you," the bald one returned, somewhat impatiently. It had been a trying evening, with a number of casualties already dispatched to the hospital, including Jerome McFarlane. An ambulance was on its way back to the scene even now, one of several that had been ferrying guests with various ailments from burns and smoke inhalation to cuts and bruises and broken bones from attempts to escape the conflagration.

They soon had Sam lying propped up on a gurney, an oxygen mask on his face to help him breathe. Getting him there had caused him to wince and shield his chest with his arm again.

"He did that before," Drew told them, brushing aside all attempts to examine him for injuries of his own, and removing the mask they'd given him. "Is it his heart?"

Sam looked up at him.

"Will you please stop worrying about me, and let them take care of you, Drew?" Sam ordered, coughing with the effort of talking.

"I'll be fine, sir," Drew replied, though he coughed again himself, "As soon as I know you will be."

"Let us be the judge of that," while his colleague examined Sam, the younger one was trying to attend to Drew's injured hands.

"See to Mr. Quincey first," Drew insisted, pulling off his tattered gloves to stop the medic fiddling with a tiny pair of scissors trying to cut them off with punctilious caution.

"It's nothing," Sam told him, though his face now betrayed the pain he was finally starting to register. "I was lucky. No broken bones, honest – I just...arh..just bruised my ribs when I slammed into that wall."

The older paramedic gently unbuttoned Sam's shirt and turned it back to take a look. A huge angry purple bruise stained the entire left side of his chest from his pecs to his waist and from sternum to underarm.

The bald man winced sympathetically, "Jeeze, that's gotta hurt!" he observed somewhat redundantly.

"Only... when I breathe," Sam returned sarcastically. Or more accurately when he coughed, which he did now, long and hard. Of course it damn well hurt. Everything hurt. Now the adrenalin rush of escape was over, and the initial shock was receding toward a sort of numb acceptance, his body was complaining at the prolonged mistreatment he'd heaped upon it.

"Take it easy, Sam," Al advised. "Ziggy says there's nothing life threatening, but you need to rest. With the panic attacks and all, you've overdone it - big time. Your body needs time to recover."

Sam could have told him that. He was shattered. He ached all over, physically, mentally and emotionally. His hands hurt, his ribs hurt, his back hurt, his leg hurt. His heart and soul hurt most of all.

"Drew?" Sam reached a shaky hand toward the young attendant, fingertips lightly touching his wrist, "Thanks for saving my life. Now, let them check you over. Get some rest. Please, to make me happy?"

Drew nodded, his eyes moist, as were Sam's. How much was due to emotion and how much to the smoky atmosphere they'd just escaped neither could have said for sure.

"What day is it?" Sam asked suddenly, of nobody in particular.

"Saturday, Sam," Al would have been worried about Sam's mental state given that question, had he not remembered that they had never gotten round to the mundane date and time elements of the leap.

"Saturday night, sir - remember?" Drew _was_ concerned by the question.

"Do me _cough_ a favor?" Sam asked his young friend, who nodded again.

"Anything, sir," he replied earnestly.

"Book me a wake up call for Thursday."

As those around him smiled, or laughed, at his comment, Sam slipped into unconsciousness with a weary careworn sigh.


	16. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

In fact it was only mid-afternoon on Sunday when Sam next fully awoke.

The top part of his hospital bed was angled at about 45 degrees and padded with several pillows to help relieve the tightness in his chest. He had an oxygen mask over his face, but at least he was breathing on his own and hadn't needed intubation. A pillow had been placed under his right leg, below the knee, to raise the injured section of his upper leg up off the bed and prevent pressure on the wound. Despite Sam's assurances to Drew, it was not quite the trivial cut he'd suggested. There was a nasty gash just over nine centimeters long, which had needed several stitches to repair. The doctor had removed several slivers of metal from the cable, and tiny threads of material from his trousers which had embedded in the wound. They were watching now to make sure that infection didn't set in, as was the case with his hands, which had similarly been compromised with splinters of foreign matter. His palms were now swathed in bandages. A tube was feeding him essential fluids.

Al stood at the foot of the bed, watching him. Though Sam was pale and grey, there were dark circles under his eyes. He looked frail and vulnerable.

"Welcome back, Sam," Al offered, with a slight smile of relief.

Sam pulled down the oxygen mask.

"Aren't you gonna ask me how I'm feeling?" Sam countered, grunting softly as he shifted position to ease his aching back. It was normally the first thing his friend would ask. The effort of talking made Sam cough as before. Coughing pulled on his bruised ribs and made him wince in pain. He inhaled a few ragged breaths from the mask.

"Take it easy, Sam. I can see exactly how you're feeling, buddy." Al observed, "And in more ways than the physical traumas. I know you're feeling guilty, Sam, but you shouldn't…"

"No? How'd you figure that one, Al? Allegra Mancini's dead isn't she?" Sam enquired bitterly, "_Isn't she?_" Sam asked again more insistently when Al, instead of answering, just lowered his head.

"Yeah, Sam, she's dead," Al confirmed sadly.

Normally Sam's first question in these situations was "Why haven't I leaped yet?" The fact that he hadn't now done so suggested he was resigning himself to not leaping because he had – in his eyes – failed. Al didn't believe that for a minute, but for now he was not going to push Ziggy for a new mission. Sam needed to regain both his strength and his spirit.

"I told her I'd get her out, Al. I said I'd save her and she believed me. She trusted me. I let her down. I let her die." Sam collapsed into another coughing fit.

"No way, Sam. If you'd done what Wayneforth did, put yourself first and not tried to help, that would have been _letting_ her die. You did all you could to save her. You nearly died yourself trying to save her. Nobody can blame you…"

"I can." Sam stated simply in a rasping whisper. "I'm not Tobias Quincey. I'm Sam Beckett. I should've been in control. I was there to get everyone out. _Everyone_, Al. All of them." More coughing interrupted his self-prosecution.

"It's not your fault you synergized, Sam. Quincey's claustrophobia was really strong. I don't know how you managed to get on top of it at all."

Sam ignored the offered defense.

"She annoyed me so much at first. She and the others with their pomposity and the way they treated Drew. I wanted to slap them. I even thought how they weren't worth saving - that they'd be no loss to the world. How wicked is that? She didn't deserve to die, Al. I saw that in the end. Nobody deserves to die like that. I should've tried harder. I killed her." Sam fell into coughing even more violently, his whole body racked with spasms, his pallid flesh now beetroot. He was obviously having trouble breathing. He held the mask tight to his face with his bandaged hand and gulped for air.

"Now cut that out, Sam!" Al chided him. "They were all nozzles; they'd have tested the patience of a saint. You showed her nothing but respect and kindness. You tried to save them – worthy or not. You did your best, Sam."

"Sir!" Drew came into the room in time to see Sam in the midst of paroxysms of coughing, looking as if he were about to gasp his last. He hurried over, pushed the button for medical attention, and tried to calm the old man down. He stroked his back soothingly and encouraged him to try and breathe naturally.

By the time a doctor and nurse hurriedly entered in response to the summons, Sam was wheezing, but the worst was over.

"Thank you, young man, we'll take it from 'ere," the doctor dismissed Drew with a wave of his hand, practically pushing him out of the way. He then took Sam's pulse and checked the flow of oxygen from the tank by the bed, and tutted, shaking his head.

"We 'ave been getting ourselves into a right old two-an'-eight, haven't we?" He commented condescendingly. Then he turned on Drew, "Have you been upsetting your father? I think you should leave and let him rest."

"I just came in on my way home to see how he was. I was in overnight for obs but I've just been discharged. He's not my father, he's…" Drew hesitated, but he wanted Mr. Quincey to know how he felt, "he's a good friend."

Obedient as ever, and wanting what was best for the old man, Drew turned to leave, "I hope you feel better soon, Mr. Quincey."

"Stay," Sam croaked, fighting not to cough again. Coughing exhausted him. His head felt like it was about to explode along with his lungs.

"You're in no condition…" the doctor began sternly.

"Please," Sam begged, reaching out a bandaged hand towards a matching one of Drew's.

"Five minutes," the doctor grudgingly allowed, "and don't go rabbiting all the time. You've strained yourself far too much already."

Checking the nurse had correctly entered the latest readings on the patient's chart, the doctor signed them and they both left.

"What did he mean about hunting rabbits?" A perplexed Sam asked when the door closed.

Drew laughed. "No, sir, rabbiting – talking a lot. I suppose in America you'd say 'yakking' or something."

"Ah," Sam nodded, "Two nations separated by a common language eh?"

"Something like that."

At Sam's invitation Drew sat down, a bit stiffly.

"Backache?" Sam asked.

"A little, sir," Drew allowed, "but it's nothing really. My doc says I'll be fine in a couple of days, just to avoid lifting heavy objects for a while."

"I'm sorry helping me made it worse," Sam apologized.

"Not at all, sir. You know I was happy to do it. I owe you so much. And now you saved my life. Thank you. I could never have done any of that without your help."

"You did fine, Drew. I should be thanking you for saving me." Sam told him.

"You already did sir, and you're welcome."

Drew looked down at his wrapped hands in his lap. It didn't take more than a few cells of Sam's genius brain to work out where the kid's thoughts were dwelling.

"I wish..." the kid couldn't bring himself to say what they were both thinking. He wished they could have saved Allegra Mancini.

"Don't go blaming yourself, Drew," Sam was reserving that right for himself.

"I did, sir, but I don't, and nor should you. Like my mum said after dad died, the Good Lord has his reasons, which may not be ours to know, and when it's your time - it's your time."

"Not always," Sam muttered under his breath.

"Sorry, sir?"

"Me too." Sam sighed. He shuffled position again, but instead of making him more comfortable it just set him to coughing.

"The doc's right, I should let you rest." Drew decided, standing up. "May I come and visit again tomorrow?"

"I'd like that," Sam returned with a genuine smile.

"I'm gonna duck out too, Sam. You need to sleep," Al announced. "Sweet dreams, pal."

Sam seriously doubted the likelihood of that.


	17. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

**Monday 1.30pm**

The nurse took Sam's still laden lunch tray away, shaking her head. The patient had barely eaten anything in the past twenty-four hours. He claimed he had no appetite. Physically, he was healing steadily, but emotionally he still seemed very withdrawn and depressed. He had not slept well last night, crying out from nightmares in which he seemed to be reliving the fire, and calling out to the woman who'd died in the lift. It was like he was grieving for a loved one - a close relative or dear friend - yet it transpired he hadn't even known the woman before that fateful journey.

Miraculously, only three souls had perished as a result of that terrible fire, which had completely gutted the hotel. The opera singer; a middle aged man who'd thrown himself out of a fifteenth storey window when he couldn't get out the door to his room, and a father who'd been badly burned rescuing his daughter and who'd passed away just this morning in a room down the corridor despite their best efforts to save him. The daughter, thank God, looked set to make a full recovery, as did all the other – far minor – casualties.

The only one Nurse Lisa Buckingham was still seriously concerned about was Mr. Quincey here. Doc Ellis had arranged for the shrink – uh 'counselor' - to come and talk to him later this afternoon, but somehow she didn't think it was going to help much.

It was such a shame. From what the young man, Drew Stoppard, had told her, and what she'd seen herself, he was a sweet old geezer, and had no need to feel guilty over the death of a stranger.

There were some visitors outside waiting to see him. Doc Ellis was still insisting Mr. Quincey needed plenty of rest and quiet, but Lisa hoped they could cheer him up. She warned them that the patient mustn't over-exert himself, and that they shouldn't stay long. They readily agreed.

He didn't seem too enthusiastic when she told him they were on their way in, but with any luck he'd perk up once they got chatting.

Sam assumed it was going to be some friends or relatives of Quincey's. In all likelihood ones who'd heard about his condition and, though they'd not seen him in months or years, decided they ought to pay a visit. There would be long awkward silences on both sides, no doubt, as they did their perceived duty.

Sam was in no mood to make small talk with people he'd have to pretend to know. He just wanted to be left alone. He tried saying he didn't feel well enough for visitors. In truth he was still very tired, he just wanted to sleep and let the world turn without him. He didn't want to talk. He didn't want to think. Thinking always led to the same thoughts - thoughts that tormented him.

However, Nurse Buckingham was convinced she knew what was best for him, and wouldn't take no for an answer. Al sided with her too, having arrived in time to hear the short-lived debate. He wouldn't say who was outside, but was most insistent that Sam should see them. Frankly, Sam was feeling too apathetic and lacking in energy to bother arguing the matter, so gave in with a 'whatever' shrug.

He prepared to cover his ignorance of his visitors by playing on his maladies. Sam was not deceitful by nature, but years of leaping had taught him the necessity of 'acting'. With any luck, they'd soon give up and leave him alone.

As it turned out, the visitors happened to be positively the last people he expected to see.

Bryony Kingston came in first, with Henry, her fiancé, on her arm. Sam smiled at her and then found his jaw floor-bound as Kenneth Attenborough and Woodrow Wayneforth the Fourth came in close behind her.

"You wouldn't believe it!" Bryony gushed. "We all ran into one another in Harrods this morning."

This afternoon her attire was less formal than when he'd last seen her, but no less elegant. She wore a periwinkle blue pleated skirt and jacket, with a white silk blouse beneath. Her shoes, purse and jewelry were all perfectly co-coordinated.

None of the trio showed the slightest evidence of the ordeal they had collectively gone through. They were – in the words of the song – all spruced up and looking in their prime. Evidently, the loss of the entire contents of their suitcases in the conflagration had been taken simply as an excuse to have a shopping spree in Knightsbridge.

"I'm glad to see you all looking so well," Sam told them sincerely.

The men had the unexpected decency to look embarrassed.

"Ah, yes, well..." Wayneforth began awkwardly. He shot Bryony Kingston a look. Sam got the distinct impression that this visit had been at her instigation, and what's more the men were not exactly eager participants.

"Erm, that is..." Woodrow was obviously trying to say something particular, and not sure how to go about it. Sam didn't feel like making it easier for him.

"Yes?"

"Uh... It would seem we owe you our gratitude, Mr. Quincey. Without your help, we would probably have all died in that lift."

"Make that 'definitely'! Call that a 'thank you', you pompous, arrogant nozzle?" Al blew cigar smoke in his face, but of course Wayneforth felt nothing.

Sam didn't bother saying anything. For some reason, "You're welcome," seemed to stick in his throat.

He was suddenly struck with an uncharacteristic desire to get a dig in at Wayneforth. He turned to Bryony Kingston, "Speaking of gratitude, I believe Drew and I have you to thank for opening the doors on level 12, Miss Kingston. We wouldn't be here now if you hadn't, so thank you very much." He reached out and took her hand with his fingertips, lifting it to his lips and kissing it gallantly.

"I don't know how you found out, but you're entirely welcome," she replied, coloring in embarrassment. "It was the least I could do to repay you for saving my life." She gave the other two an accusing look.

Wayneforth looked at the floor and cleared his throat. Was that a flicker of guilt on his face? If so, all well and good.

"I know Mr. McFarlane is very grateful too," Bryony emphasized. "I visited him last evening. He's in some pain from his ankle, but he's doing well."

"I'm glad to hear it," Sam smiled, truly pleased that the young man was not too seriously hurt.

Attenborough stepped forward then, waving a piece of paper. He seemed about to give it to Sam, then looked at the still bandaged hands and thought better of it. He placed it on the locker by Sam's bed instead.

"Uh, as a token of our um...appreciation for your actions... we... uh... we've taken the liberty of placing an order with Swaine Adeney Briggs of St. James's Street – splendid firm, well established – well, anyway... a bespoke cane has been commissioned for you to replace the one you lost." He made it sound as if it had been left on a tube train. "By the time you are up and about it should be ready for you to collect from Briggs', just present that..." he waved vaguely at the piece of paper.

"I get the idea, thank you," Sam responded. Not that he was bothered about being thanked or rewarded for what he'd done. Personally, he didn't care. He just didn't like people who took things – or other people – for granted. "A 'token' to Drew Stoppard would be more appropriate. Along with a genuine "Thank you." You owe your lives as much to him…" Sam broke off to cough briefly.

Sam expected them to dismiss the idea out of hand in their usual superior manner, but to his surprise the two men muttered together and nodded, seemingly agreeing to come up with some appropriate gesture.

"I think you may finally be getting through to those hard-heads, Sam," Al observed.

That notion did more than anything else had in the past day or so to lift Sam's spirits.

"You think we behaved appallingly, don't you, Mr. Quincey?" Attenborough asked in a subdued voice.

"Don't you?" Sam shot back. Who did these people think they were?

"On reflection, I confess we rather did."

"I shouldn't have abandoned you," admitted Wayneforth, "I'm sorry. I feared for my life and that fear drove me…" he looked down again, unable to meet Sam's eyes, which had been full of condemnation, but now softened.

"I suppose a lot of people would have reacted the same way." Sam allowed. "But no one life is any more or less important than any other, whoever they may be," Sam told them. "Remember that. You've been given a second chance with yours, gentlemen. Use the gift for more than selfish pursuits. That's the greatest thanks you could give me, or Drew, or anyone."

They looked at each other.

"You have my word, sir," Wayneforth assured him after a moment.

"And mine," Attenborough added.

They both put out their hands to shake Sam's, but he held his up with a shrug. The bandages let them know that such a gesture would be painful to him.

"You did it, Sam." Al told him enthusiastically. "They are changed men. Attenborough sets up an annual scholarship for promising students with insufficient funds – and yes, Drew is the first recipient. Wayneforth gets religion, and not only supports various charitable institutions financially but gives regular talks about selfishness and social responsibility. Wow. Talk about a change of heart!"

Sam smiled at his friend, pleased at positive outcomes as ever, but then turned his head away.

"I think Mr. Quincey is tired," Bryony decided. "We've taken enough of his time. Please get well soon, Mr. Quincey. I want you to dance with me at my wedding!"

Henry nodded. "Thank you for giving me back my fiancée, Mr. Quincey," he said simply.

"My pleasure," Sam assured him.

On which note they took their leave.


	18. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

Left alone with his holographic sidekick, Sam reached for the oxygen mask - no longer in constant use, but kept within easy reach for the inevitable occasional relapse. He drew a few breaths on it, avoiding looking at Al. The message was clear. He didn't feel like talking.

Al was not about to leave his friend alone with his dark thoughts. He'd learned something that should give Sam a crumb of comfort, and had only delayed imparting it because of the arrival of the others. Hopefully, their epiphany would help to make Sam more receptive.

"Good news about the nozzles, eh Sam?" Al bounced on the balls of his feet, as he tended to do when he was leading up to something.

"Yeah, sure," Sam muttered unenthusiastically. "I'm very tired, Al. Cut out or cut to the chase, huh?"

Al thought about reverse psychology. It often worked with the kid when he was in this sort of morose mood. Tell him, "It doesn't matter, it'll keep," and Sam would soon be bursting with curiosity and dying to know what Al wanted to tell him. This time, Al sensed that Sam would shrug and say, "Please yourself."

So Al decided just to give it to him straight. Even if Sam wasn't yet ready to feel consoled by the news, at least he'd know.

"I uh… that is, Ziggy has uncovered some information about Allegra Mancini, Sam." Al began. "She's accessed her medical records."

"Newsflash, Al," Sam countered, "The records show that she was alive and now she's dead. And it's my fault. Period."

"I don't think you gave her cancer, Sam." Al stated matter-of-factly.

"What?" Sam turned to look at Al, in spite of himself.

_Yeah, that got your attention, didn't it kid?_

"She didn't even know it herself, Sam. She had an appointment with the specialist this morning – that is Monday morning, your time. He was going to tell her she had throat cancer. The prognosis was six months, a year maximum."

"A year I robbed her of, Al." Sam maintained.

"She was a successful opera singer, Sam. She had a duff performance the other week and thought she'd just strained her voice. She went to the specialist for tests and that's what they found. Think what it would have been like for her, Sam," Al pressed. "She'd have either had to give up the career she lived for to try to prolong her life - slink off to die in obscurity; or she'd have tried to fight it out. Her performances would have suffered and with them her reputation. Instead of going out on a high as she has done, there would have been media gossip and bad reviews and all sorts of negativity. Either way, she'd have been miserable Sam. As it is, she is still regarded as one of the best opera singers ever to grace the Royal Opera House. Sales of her records are as high as they ever were in her lifetime. She has left a legacy of greatness."

"Are you seriously trying to suggest I did her a favor by letting her die now?" Sam accused.

"Put like that it sounds a bit callous, but that's what it boils down to Sam," Al wasn't about to back down. "And I keep telling you, you didn't _let_ her die."

"Don't give me that, Al. It's just semantics. I knew that elevator was due to fall, and I was supposed to get everyone out. Allegra Mancini didn't make it out because I wasted time having crazy hallucinations."

Al wished he wasn't a hologram. Sam could do with a good slapping to bring him to his senses.

"Firstly, okay - the elevator crashed sooner than originally, because of the attempts to move it. That's true. But those attempts got everyone else out – so it was the right thing to do. The alternative was to do nothing and so change nothing. 'Cept you'd have died instead of Quincey. Not a great plan. Then again, we've long ago agreed that some higher power is controlling your leaps, Sam. If 'He' wanted you to get Allegra out, don't you think He'd have spared you the terrors? Would have timed it so you got her through the doors before the car took a nose dive? We assumed your mission was to save everyone, but we can't know for sure it was."

"Then why haven't I leaped, eh Al?" Sam countered. "Giving the nozzles a change of heart might have been a valid excuse to stay. But if I didn't fail, if I'm not guilty, then how come I still haven't leaped?"

"I think maybe because you have to accept you didn't fail, Sam. You have to come to terms with the fact that you did everything humanly possible, and sadly it wasn't enough for Allegra. That she wasn't meant to escape."

"Oh, I dunno, Al." Sam sighed. "Every time I close my eyes, I see that elevator disappearing into the void below. I can hear Allegra Mancini screaming. It's like she's crying out to me to save her, and I reach down, but she's too far away, she's moving too fast and I… I can't…"

Sam's breath was coming in short stilted sobs; he couldn't get the words out. Tears filled his eyes and spilled down his cheeks.

"It's okay, Sam, let it out. You need to let it go." Al encouraged soothingly. He wished he could swallow his friend in a huge sympathetic hug, but he was only able to stand by and offer what words of comfort he could.

Sam continued to sob, bemoaning over and over his inability to keep Allegra from her date with death in semi coherent ramblings.

Al let him rant and cry, until at last the tone of Sam's comments changed, as Al had been sure they would.

"It's not f-f-fair, Al," Sam complained again between sobs, "Why did she h-have to die? She sh-shouldn't have died. I should have s-saved her. I t-tried to save her."

Al ceased on that, and emphasized it. "Yes, Sam you did. You tried. You tried hard - harder than most men would have. You did your best."

"I... I tried..." Sam repeated, as if considering the possibility for the first time. "Tried to save h-her..."

"Yes, Sam," Al confirmed again, "You did everything you could. Right up to the last second, you kept trying... "

"I thought I could save her... I did all I could to save her..."

"Listen to yourself, Sam. You did all you could. You did your best. You have nothing to feel guilty about. Nothing. You didn't give up on her."

"I didn't give up." Sam finally sounded like he believed himself. "I tried as long as I could..." His sobs were slowing now, which was just as well as the outpouring of grief had caused considerable strain on his bruised ribs. He was wincing, even though he wasn't aware of the pain on any conscious level.

"That's right, Sam. You need to forgive yourself. You did an amazing job just to get everyone else out. You should be proud of that. It was a tough assignment, pal, and you did good. You did better than good. Hang on to that, Sam. Six people are alive right now who wouldn't have been but for you. And I know it's only a shred of compensation, but you honestly wouldn't have been giving Allegra much of a life had you saved her. If the Powers That Be decided it was better for her to go with a bang than a whimper, then we really shouldn't argue, should we?"

Sam sniffed and stifled a cough. He shook his head slightly.

"I guess not..." Sam wiped his eyes with his wrists, and then settled back into his pillows, physically and emotionally drained.

"Attaboy, Sam, that's the spirit," Al encouraged, relieved that his friend was emerging from under his dark cloud of misery.

"Thanks, Al," Sam whispered, not needing to elaborate.

Al swiped his hand in the air dismissively.

"Any time, buddy." He smiled. His instinct was telling him the same as Sam's seemed to be for his friend looked at him with his head tilted slightly on one side.

"Feeling better, Sam?" Al asked, but they both knew what he was really asking.

"Getting there," Sam replied.

And leaped.


End file.
